


Here's a Conspiracy

by castiowl



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artist Steve Rogers, Bad Spanish, Baseball, Big Bang Challenge, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Brooklyn, Catholic Guilt, Denial of Feelings, Domestic, Guilt, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Pacifism, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Plot Twists, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Radio, Sick Bucky Barnes, Sick Steve Rogers, Sickfic, Social Issues, Vignette, World War II, historical events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 09:04:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7795669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castiowl/pseuds/castiowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pre-war years as told by an anomalistic radio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Here's a Conspiracy

**Author's Note:**

> ** There's a minor event I'm going to warn about in the end notes. It is nothing graphic or sexual in any way, but if you are still unsure, please feel free to skip to the end notes to read the warning. I don't want to write in the warning because it is a major plot point and would spoil a lot of this story, but I also didn't want to blindside anyone. **
> 
> (If you really don't want to spoil this fic but are still worried, you can IM me on [Tumblr](http://bartlebies.tumblr.com) and I'll be happy to be as vague or specific as you want.)

The Rogers family weren’t superstitious exactly, but as a rule they didn’t talk about how they came to own the Rogers Batteryless Model 220 Super A/C radio receiving set. It was a shame, really, because there was nothing Bucky Barnes wanted to do more than wax poetic about it. All sleek, walnut wood encasing a state-of-the-art, five-tube circuitry system. It was as advertised – batteryless. It plugged right into the light socket. And there wasn’t even an aerial to futz around with. The Rogers had also acquired the Newcombe Hawley speaker, called a Concert Grand Horn Speaker because it felt like you were at one of those ritzy dos with everyone all dressed up in their glad rags. Except instead you were in the Rogers’ tiny apartment, just home from school in your pressed slacks and frayed button-up.

The terminally small apartment allowed for incredible acoustics, which were only allowed a few hours in the early evening when everyone in the tenement building had just gotten home from work and didn’t have the energy to jam the handle-end of a broom into the wall, floor, or ceiling.

Bucky liked the jazz stations. He got plenty of the real stuff on weekends, especially once he turned 17 and grew into his awkwardly long arms and legs, but the music at the clubs wasn’t real professional. They could pretend to be Duke Ellington or Earl Hines, but they were a far cry. Steve opted for the radio shows or the news, if he opted at all.

Well-produced, sharp sound, and polished wood – the radio was a marvel.

The radio was also an anomaly. It should not have existed in that run-down apartment under the care of Steve and Sarah Rogers who, if they hadn’t commented on a radio show once or twice in front of Bucky, might have convinced him it didn’t exist. On bad days, the Rogers could barely rub two pennies together, so it would forever baffle Bucky that in their midst was a $370 radio.

Bucky had once brought up the radio to his own parents who didn’t seem quite as curious, perhaps because they’d never seen the thing and couldn’t quite surmise its absolute paradoxical state in the home of Sarah Rogers, belabored nurse, and her sickly son. The Barneses offered up a familial inheritance explanation. After all, their last name was _Rogers_. It was a _Rogers_ radio. (Bucky would later learn from a guy on the docks that the Rogers of radio renown was French-Canadian and not likely to have been related to the late Irish born-and-bred Joseph Rogers or his wife, Sarah.)

One thing Bucky did know about the radio was that the Rogers had owned it as long as Bucky had known them. He had met a battered and bloodied Steve on a rainy afternoon in 1925 and a few months later was the first time Bucky had entered the Rogers’ apartment – a different one at the time, given their subsistence on Mr. Rogers’ rapidly diminishing army pension. Bucky had open-mouth gaped at the radio set. It was deceptively built to look like any well-made bureau or China cabinet – which was crazy to Bucky who would’ve wanted the whole world to know that he could listen to _Amos ‘n’ Andy_ in his own home. But he stared and he wondered aloud _how_. Even back then, at the ripe age of seven, Steve was skilled at deflection. And Bucky had been brought up proper; he didn’t probe. The radio became a fact of life.

The radio broke twice. The first was during the move from that first apartment to the broken-down tenement building. The second was after Sarah died and Steve had kicked in the leg of the radio with a curse and a shout. Bucky reamed him for that – the radio didn’t do a damn thing to Steve, but if he wanted to take his anger out on something, he’d call when tuberculosis got a body so Steve could punch its teeth in instead. Fortunately, Steve’s outburst had only cost them a replacement tube.

It hadn’t broken since.

  


* * *

  


_Rear Admiral Clark Woodward, Commandant of the Navy Yard, was in attendance and drove the first rivet during the long-awaited keel laying of the USS Missouri. And what a beauty she is! With state-of-the-art torpedo defense systems, this ship will–_

“That’s national news, that is, and you’re drawin’!” Bucky groused from the stiff, yellowed armchair by the radio set.

“No need to listen when I got the man of the hour ready to tell me – for the billionth time – every godforsaken detail–”

“Slim it!” Bucky tossed a ratty pillow at Steve, hitting him square in the face. Steve caught the pillow and leveled a disappointed look at Bucky before he dropped the pillow beside him on the couch. The reaction did nothing but heighten Bucky’s sense of elation. Nothing, not even Steve’s sour attitude, could bring him down from the Cloud Nine brought on by having a real, steady, paying, long-term job.

“Here’s a conspiracy,” Steve said and Bucky looked to the ceiling in distress. It was a tired joke, one of many that had followed them through adolescence into their so-called prime. “You were actually hired as the _USS Missouri_ spokesman.”

“I make ten bucks an hour and I got sweet digs on the East. Nothin’ too flashy, but big enough for me and my wife and two kids.”

“Both of your kids are named Steve.”

“Only ‘cause I lost a bet.”

“With the president.”

Bucky was the first to crack, a laugh rushing out of him. Steve grinned in triumph.

“They say it could take four years to finish her,” Bucky continued on a more serious note. He slumped down in the chair, throwing his legs over the arm. It had been a much more comfortable position eight years ago before he’d hit his growth spurt. At 23 – almost 24 – and tall, fit, broad-shouldered, he was hardpressed to find anywhere in their crappy apartment that was comfortable. He’d never tell Steve as much since the guy wouldn’t hear a bad word against his late mother’s place, even if it was a glorified closet: one room, a sink in what could hardly be called a kitchen, shoddy plumbing in an alcove separated from the main by a moth-eaten curtain, and two tiny cots shoved in the corner that constituted their bedroom. And they were the lucky ones. Damita and her extended family of ten were forced to share the first floor of the walk-up. Steve had offered upwards of a hundred times to house some of their Puerto Rican neighbors, but Damita had refused point-blank and seemed to have threatened the rest of her ilk with bodily harm should they even consider accepting. It was a point of pride, which Bucky understood to an extent.

Selfishly, he was glad, too. The fewer people in the apartment, the less likely it was Steve would catch cold.

Bucky turned his attention back to the ancient radio – the one piece of equipment worth anything in their lousy apartment nowadays – while Steve continued his sketching. All things considered, today was the easiest payday Bucky had ever had. Five bucks to stand in the background while a couple of newspaper schmucks took photos. Tomorrow, the real work began.  


  


* * *

  


“Por favor, Damita… No, claro, pero… Sí, pero… Nuestro apartamento es… Claro, claro! Pero Bucky y yo usamos solamente…”

Steve’s stilted, Brooklyn-inflected Spanish filtered through the front door, interrupted every third word or so by rapid-fire nonsense by Damita. Bucky didn’t need to understand the language to know that Steve was once again offering up their apartment to Damita and her family. There’d been another birth in the family, which Bucky didn’t quite understand, but last time he’d pointed out that maybe they might consider stopping breeding, Steve had gummed on about culture and Catholicism and integration for a full hour until he was red in the face and Bucky had to threaten him with the hand-held nebulizer before he calmed down again.

Bucky was lying on his back on the uneven wood flooring right in front of the radio. Hours of manual labor had been wearing him down for a week, his body unable to acclimate to the strenuous workload so quickly. He stretched his arms above his head, cringing when his shoulders popped, and allowed himself to zone back into the radio that was nearing the end of its nightly news cycle.

_Congress enacted the U.S. Nationality Act in 1940, but the act did not come into effect until today._

Bucky tipped his head to the side to hear over the din of Steve and Damita’s conversation.

_Effective today, all persons born in Puerto Rico are considered U.S. citizens whose rights will be protected under the 14th amendment. This is different, of course, from the U.S. citizenship granted in 1917, which was a statutory citizenship prone to revocation under certain conditions._

“Shit,” Bucky said. “Shit, shit, shit.” He scrambled up off the floor and over to Steve.

“Tome la comida y callate, rubito. Has hecho tanto para mi y mi familia,” Damita said earnestly.

Steve was holding a battered dish that halfway distracted Bucky from his task. Damita couldn’t afford to make extra food, but she did it anyway every time Steve offered to watch the kids.

“Steve,” Bucky muttered.

Steve glanced over at Bucky, eyebrows rising in surprise. “Everything okay?”

Bucky glanced at Damita who was looking pleased, probably thinking she’d won Steve over and he would be accepting the food. (He would eat it grudgingly and in small amounts, as if making it last longer would somehow make him feel less guilty.)

“Puerto Ricans. They’re citizens now. Did you–?” Bucky stopped short at the look on Damita’s face. If Bucky had to hazard a guess, he’d say she was in her early 40s, but the terror on her face in that moment aged her considerably.

“What you are saying?” she asked in her heavy accent.

Steve looked between the two with a pinched brow. “What does that–? I thought you already were citizens?”

“Soy un ciudadano,” Damita said, pride tipping her words past fear for the moment.

“It’s less about the law itself, more about what the law means in the grand scheme of things,” Bucky explained.

“Guerra,” Damita said.

Bucky didn’t need a translator for that.  


  


* * *

  


“Come on fellows, the USO’s for the USA. Give your support to the USO!” Bucky recited with forced cheer. “Stevie, I found you a job!”

“Hm, what’s that?” Steve muttered. His nose was an inch away from Bucky’s work trousers, expertly sewing a patch into the left knee. Bucky had always been lousy with that sort of thing.

Bucky turned the newspaper around and shook it to get Steve’s attention. “Huh, whatdya think?”

Steve finally glanced up. The flicker of confusion to surprise to chagrin on his face was lightning-fast and exceptionally entertaining.

“I’d swing at you, but I’d be afraid to stick you in the face with a needle. God knows your face is all you got goin’ for ya,” Steve said. He returned to his work.

Bucky let the paper drop to the floor, the print picture of four gorgeous dames with the longest gams Bucky’d laid eyes on staring up at them with big smiles and dark eyes.

“I think you’d look real nice in one of those, uh, skirt get-ups,” Bucky said. “Here’s a conspiracy. You’re secretly a showgirl on the weekends.”

“I travel all around the states while you’re asleep,” Steve replied without looking up from his work.

“You went to the Grand Canyon without me!” Bucky got up and stepped over to the couch. Steve moved over obligingly so Bucky could lay down with his knees up, bare feet finding very little warmth under Steve’s thigh.

“I got to do a show with Bob Hope,” Steve continued.

“He complimented your lithe frame and exceptionally nice gams.” Bucky wiggled his toes under Steve’s thigh.

Steve snorted a laugh and Bucky finally allowed himself to smile. It was rare to win against Steve and every victory felt like the first.

They lapsed into silence, the only sound the crooning voice of Paula Kelly on the radio singing, _When you dance with me, I’m in heaven when the music begins_.

Bucky couldn’t help but laugh a little.

“What?” Steve asked, eyes flicking up to glare at Bucky accusingly.

“My face is all I got goin’ for me, huh? You really think I’m pretty?” Bucky asked. He batted his eyes, then yelped when Steve stuck him in the shin with the needle.

Steve raised the needle to show he’d jabbed Bucky with the eye, not the point. It was little consolation after the fact.  


  


* * *

  


_It is with a very real sense of satisfaction that I accept for the people of the United States, and on their behalf, this National Gallery and the collections it contains. The giver of this building has matched the richness of its gift with the modesty of his spirit, stipulating that the gallery shall be known not by his name but by the nation's. And those other collectors' paintings and sculpture, who have already joined, or who propose to join their works of art to Mr. Mellon's, Mr. Kress and Mr. Widener, have felt the same desire to establish not a memorial to themselves, but a monument to the art that they love and country to which they belong._

The president’s tinny voice reverberated through the stale air of the apartment. For once it was Steve at rapt attention by the radio, curled up in the armchair with a blanket thrown over his legs. The muted but incessant tapping of his foot against the threadbare upholstery of the chair kept Bucky just on the brink between awake and asleep from his prostrate position on the couch.

That, plus the intermittent huffs of disdain from Steve.

“Chester Dale,” Steve muttered.

Bucky finally gave it up, resigning himself to another lost napping opportunity. He sighed and asked, “Who the fuck is Chester Dale?”

Steve’s foot paused its rhythmic beating for just a moment before he huffed again. “He _knows_ Frieda Kahlo,” Steve said impatiently.

“Oh, right,” Bucky said, as if he had any idea who the hell that was.

“I mean, he’s not _bad_ ,” Steve said. It was clearly an admittance of some kind, but Bucky wasn’t inclined to press the issue.

“Australian art sounds neat,” Bucky added, grabbing for news he _could_ comment on.

“Sure,” Steve agreed.

They could take the train down one weekend, maybe. D.C. wasn’t too far.  


  


* * *

  


Bucky’s leg beat a tattoo against the splintered wood beneath his cot, the area already well-worn by a routine of standing, stretching, and walking every morning. When the movement did nothing to calm his growing anxiety, he paced past the couch to the front door which he opened wide to look down the metal, grated steps. He closed the door again and locked it, then unlocked it, then locked it again.

Bucky’s hand was still on the rusted knob when a knock sounded and he tore the door open. Damita stood there with a little brown girl clutching her long skirt and peering at Bucky with wide eyes. Bucky thought her name might be Maria or maybe Rosa.

“Damita,” Bucky said in surprise.

“Steve is home?” she asked.

“No, no, he…” Bucky swallowed and glanced back into the apartment, at the radio that was turned up too loud.

“In city?” Damita asked. Her hand went to the back of the little girl’s head to ruffle her hair affectionately. She must know, then, judging by the concerned look.

Bucky shook his head, then nodded. “I don’t know,” he settled on. “No sé.”

Damita opened her mouth to reply, but then she turned and looked to her left. “Rubito!” she exclaimed.

Bucky pushed passed Damita, perhaps too forcefully, and onto the landing to see Steve trudging up the stairs, head down and face obscured by his hair. All at once, the thousand and one questions Bucky had about where Steve had been, what he’d been doing, what he’d been _thinking_ going to Manahattan when he _knew_ –

“Hey,” Bucky stuttered out breathlessly.

Steve’s head snapped up in surprise, putting his face in the full light of the dying sun. He looked largely unscathed, save a small abrasion on his left cheek, just below his eye.

“Buck. Damita,” Steve said as he reached them. “What’s going on?”

“What were you _thinking_?” Bucky snapped.

Steve puffed his chest out and frowned, an involuntary reaction now to being challenged. “What the hell are you–?” He paused and glanced at Damita. “What’re you on about now?”

Bucky balked at the nonchalance. “What am I–?” started Bucky aggressively before backing off quickly into the apartment. Steve followed and then Damita with the little girl.

Once past the door, the radio became clearer, the newscaster’s tinny voice echoing through the cramped space. _–riots as far as Times Square, with no casualties reported as of yet. And still the rioting continues in Brooklyn Navy Yard while military personnel helped by the police attempt to defuse the situation from–_

Steve walked over and turned off the radio with more force than was strictly necessary. “You believe that… blooey? C’mon, Buck, you know better!”

“Do I?” Bucky snapped back. “They were right about the Navy Yard, why shouldn’t they be right about the city, huh?”

Steve’s defiant glare eased in surprise. “It… did you…? Are you hurt?”

“No, of course not,” Bucky said, running a hand through his hair. “They wouldn’t let us past the gates. Told us to go home. I’ve been waiting–”

“It really wasn’t all that in the city,” Steve insisted, hands raised. “Just a couple of… of drunk bullies with nothin’ better to do, I swear. It was just speeches mostly.”

“So you were there.”

“I…”

“Christ, Steve, do you have a death wish?”

“No! But Tim said that what they said was interesting, and, y’know, he was right! There’s a lotta good points to be made about keepin’ outta the war, even if I don’t exactly agree and all that. If you’d been there–”

“I’d’a dragged your sorry behind home, is what I woulda done,” Bucky snapped.

The two were practically nose-to-nose, leveling one another with indignant stares, and only stepped back when the little girl whispered something unintelligible into Damita’s skirts.

“Damita,” Steve said, immediately mellowing out in a way only he could. Bucky had to pace to the other side of the room and back before he felt himself calm down enough to speak.

“Que necesitas?” Steve asked.

Bucky looked over just in time to see her motion to Bucky. “El lavabo está roto.”

“The sink is broken,” Steve translated, but Bucky had heard that line enough to know it now.

He dug at his eye with his knuckle before saying, “Yeah, I can take a look.”

“Él estará en un minuto, bien?” Steve said.

“Bien,” Damita said. She almost turned to leave before taking Steve’s chin in her firm hand. The woman and Steve were of a height, but her countenance made her look ten feet taller. “Cuídate, Rubito. Él esta perdido sin ti.”

Apparently satisfied with Steve’s confused frown, she left. Bucky scrounged up the rusted work tools that used to belong to his father.

“It shouldn’t take long,” Bucky said.

“Yeah,” Steve replied.

“Hey, here’s a conspiracy,” Bucky said, hand resting on the doorknob. “You don’t throw yourself into every fight within a 20-block radius.”

“Midtown is definitely more than 20 blocks,” Steve said softly.

Bucky looked over at Steve and leveled him with his best world-weary smile. Steve gave him a sheepish one in reply.

“Why’s she always call you ‘Rubito’?” Bucky asked. “Is that, like, a nickname or somethin’?”

Steve rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I think so. Rubio is blond. So, little blond.”

“Oh. What’s brown, then?”

“Moreno.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You really think I’m that thick, pal?”

Steve looked taken aback.

“Moron-oh?” Bucky pronounced slowly. “Yeah, right.”

Steve’s laughter could be heard even after Bucky shut the door and headed downstairs.  


  


* * *

  


_–a stretch, to be sure! By just one vote, the legislation passed. Selectees and personnel in the National Guard will have their draft extended from one year to thirty months. By one vote! Well, there’s no mistaking what this means, but fear not, dear listeners. Precaution does not predict the future. Senator Johnson spoke to–_

“Steve, don’t!”

Bucky was too late. By the time the radio’s speakers had thrummed the word “thirty” into the swampy apartment air, Steve had been up and out the front door. Bucky was hot on his heels as Steve padded down the bottom of the metal stairs, turning right into the alley between their building and the next. Bucky groaned inwardly before following suit, cursing as his bare feet hit sun-soaked grating. The August heat was baring down, unforgiving even in the late evening.

Bucky rounded the corner at a jog to find Steve standing, just standing. His hands were tight, pale fists at his sides, his white shirt sticking to the sweat on his back, his head bowed. He shook slightly.

“It’s doesn’t mean anything,” Bucky said. “I’m not…” _leaving tomorrow_ , he wanted to say. “I haven’t been…” _drafted_. But just thinking the words, feeling them in the back of his throat like sticky, mutinous things made him want to vomit.

Steve turned slowly, and in an instant was on Bucky, his fist cocked back and swinging. He missed the mark of Bucky’s jaw by an inch, saved only by Bucky’s reflex to reel back so that Steve’s knuckles collided with Bucky’s chin instead. It didn’t even have the brunt of Steve’s full strength behind it, which wasn’t considerable, but the blow still staggered Bucky. Bucky brought a hand up to his chin and then looked at it out of habit, but Steve hadn’t broken skin.

“What you blowin’ your fuckin’ wig for?!” Bucky cried out. He wanted to hit back, to do _something_ , but then Steve was on him again, this time throwing his arms around Bucky’s middle.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Steve breathed into Bucky’s chest as he held fast. It was an almost violent embrace. Steve’s hold was like unrelenting iron so all Bucky could do was wrap his arms around Steve, too, one hand on his shoulder, the other on the back of his head. His fingers found comfort in the soft, pale hairs on the nape of his neck, slightly damp from sweat.

“It’s copacetic, pal,” Bucky said evenly. He flicked his eyes to either side, but no one was out in the heat. Good thing, too, considering what they probably looked like, embracing in a dark alley. It made Bucky itch somewhere deep under his skin, so he had to force himself to stay still. They didn’t do this – they didn’t touch. Not like this, at least. Roughhousing, fighting dirty, jabs and elbows to the ribs, but never anything so intimate.

Bucky ignored the deep burning behind his ribcage that bubbled up the more Steve held his warm weight against him.  


  


* * *

  


“Here’s a conspiracy, Buck. They made this movie about you.”

Bucky looked up from his book with a frown. “What’re you–?”

Steve jabbed his thumb toward the radio.

_–starting at 9:30 a.m.! The one, the only, the fabulous – DUMBO! Walt Disney’s full-length feature production in full Technicolor–_

The rest of it was drowned out by Bucky throwing an arm around Steve’s neck and pulling him close to dig his knuckles into his crown. Steve careened away in breathless laughter, pushing fruitlessly against Bucky’s chest, trying to escape to the other end of the couch. He found the mark under Bucky’s ribs and Bucky yelped and fell back, dragging Steve with him.

“You think you’re real fuckin’ smart, don’t ya?” Bucky groused.

“I wonder, did Walt take inspiration from your life or was it just your personality?” Steve said.

In one swift motion, Bucky flipped Steve under him, hands pinned above him, legs held down by Bucky’s weight.

“Dry up!” Bucky shot back. “And say you’re sorry, Rogers.”

Steve raised his eyebrows. “For tellin’ the truth? I don’t– DON’T YOU DARE!”

Bucky made a show of swishing his spit in his mouth thoughtfully. “Say you’re sorry,” Bucky repeated.

“Oh _God_!” Steve struggled uselessly as Bucky leaned over.

Bucky licked his lips and let a string of saliva drop half an inch from his mouth before sucking it back up with a grotesque noise.

“Oh, hell, hell! Okay! I’m sorry! Fuck, I’m sorry!”

“You don’t sound very sincere,” Bucky said.

“You _idiot_ ,” Steve hissed. He jerked one leg out of Bucky’s hold and his knee came out, hitting Bucky square in the crotch.

Bucky immediately collapsed with a sharp cry.

“Oh Christ, Buck, I’m sorry, I’m so–.” Steve’s apologies were lost in a gale of barely-contained laughter. He broke a moment letter and laughed hard and loud.

Bucky groaned and collapsed to the side, half his weight holding Steve down like an anchor. “I’m dead. I’ve died. This is the end.”

“Didn’t realize I was livin’ with Cary Grant.”

“I’ll show you Cary fuckin’ Grant,” Bucky mumbled into the scratchy fabric of the couch. He felt more than heard Steve snort a laugh beside him.

“Ya gonna get off me anytime soon?” Steve asked drily.

Bucky made a non-committal grunt. The newly tender areas of his body notwithstanding, he was comfortable. Steve seemed to be a strange conduit for heat, helped by the three or four layers of clothes he wore to keep out the late October air. Bucky could get away with feigned paralysis due to pain for a while longer.

Steve’s breathing picked up. Bucky wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t literally right on top of him, but the last thing he wanted was to cause him to have an asthma attack. Steve hated the nebulizer and he’d hate Bucky even more for making him use it.

“Sorry,” Bucky grunted out and pushed himself up. He was leaning over Steve, hands on either side of his head, when he froze. Steve’s eyes, usually so blue even in the dim apartment lighting, were practically black, his lips were parted and wet, like maybe he’d just licked them. Or were they always like that? Bucky hadn’t noticed before, but now he was noticing everything. How long had Steve had the brush of freckles across his nose and cheekbones? They must get darker in summer, but Bucky couldn’t say. His eyelashes were so long, they brushed his cheeks when he blinked, soft and slow.

“Buck.”

What would it feel like to press his lips against Steve’s? Not a kiss. Bucky wasn’t–

He couldn’t–

But just a moment of touch, nothing for it. Not for it to mean anything, exactly, but just because. Just because–

Well.

“Buck,” Steve said again. His voice was odd, like it was coming out of someplace lower than usual.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathed.

Steve’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, a brief tease of pink before it was just his mouth again, pink and wanting – _like a girl’s, like a girl’s, like a girl’s_ , Bucky thought desperately.

“Cash or check?” Steve asked.

Bucky scrambled off the couch, stumbled past the armchair, and over to the front door. His heart pounded audibly in his chest and his face burned; he could feel it like a brand. “Sorry,” Bucky choked out. He grabbed at the door handle. When had his hands gotten so sweaty? “Sorry, I gotta–”

He ran.  


  


* * *

  


Bucky was sick. Or crazy. Or both.

  


* * *

  


Bucky’s pal Donny who worked at the yard had an uncle whose gal was a costume maker for the John Golden Theatre and Donny was scalping tickets at a fraction of the price because some family thing came up – Bucky had stopped listening at that point and had blindly shelled out the dollar and a half for mezzanine tickets to a Broadway premiere of a show called _Angel Street_.

Steve’s eyes went all narrow when Bucky had told him what they’d be doing that weekend, which was to be expected since Bucky had spent the last three months ensuring he and Steve didn’t spend any more time together than was absolutely necessary. It was childish, maybe, but more than that, it was safe. Steve couldn’t know–

He couldn’t think that–

Well.

Bucky thought the only reason Steve was eventually convinced was because of the ad that came on the radio while Bucky was stating his case to Steve that it was money well-spent.

 _–a Victorian thriller in three acts!_ the enthused announcer said. Languid, eerie violins underscored his voice. _Forget what you know, ladies and gentlemen, and remember what you’ve lost in this gruesome thriller premiering tonight! Come meet the Manninghams of Angel Street at the John Golden Theatre where nothing is as it seems… Limited tickets are available at the door._

They took the Canarsie Line to Penn Station. Bucky paid because he had steady work and even Steve was too cold to really put up much of a fight.

They walked the six or seven blocks from Penn to the theatre, huddled up in indecent layers. December had turned biting cold too early that year and it made their steps stilted and awkward.

The shift in their relationship was palpable, but more so because Steve so acutely picked up on it within the days that followed. All it took was a slight shift in gait so their arms wouldn’t grace and their elbows wouldn’t knock and Steve sank into himself. No more horseplay, no more ruffled hair or sharp elbows or kicks to the soles of feet while they were walking. Nothing else had changed, Bucky tried to convince himself. They still fought like cats and dogs, jumping down each other’s throats and prying laughs out of one another like trophies. That hadn’t changed. _They_ hadn’t changed.

It was more difficult to maintain a distance on the crowded streets of Midtown on a Friday evening. More than once Bucky nearly lost Steve in the crowd because they had to walk single-file past a huddle of cab-callers or a queue of movie-goers. When it happened a third time, Bucky huffed out an annoyed breath and looped his arm through Steve’s, pulling him tight against his side. Steve physically started at the contact, which Bucky pretended not to notice. Steve ducked his nose into his overlarge scarf and they soldiered on.

The theatre was crowded – it was a premiere, after all – and their seats were good considering the price Bucky had paid. The play was definitely more Bucky’s style than Steve’s – murder, jewels, psychological thrills. After the play, Steve seemed pensive and quiet. He got like that more often, or maybe he always did but Bucky had been able to stop it with a swift, hard punch to the shoulder or a rough arm around the neck.

Instead, Bucky tucked his hands into his pockets and led the way out of the theatre back toward the station. It was late and the streets had cleared considerably, so there was no need for them to stand close. Bucky still itched for the contact, because even through ten layers of clothes and even for just those few blocks, Steve pressed to his side had felt right.

Bucky pressed the corner of the playbill in his pocket down and rolled it into a cone. “Mr. Manningham was sure creepy. Who’s that actor?”

Steve, who had spent the half hour before the show with his nose in the playbill reading biographies, said, “Vincent Price.”

Bucky hummed. “Thought he was gonna bump her off at the end there, though. It was swell, huh? Maybe we should come here more often. I guess this is how the butter and egg men do it all the time. Could get used to it. I’ll tell Donny if you like, maybe he could score us somethin’ a little more your speed next time.”

“Buck.”

“I don’t mean you’re too dumb to get it, I just mean I know murder mystery ain’t really your deal.”

“Bucky.”

Bucky stopped when he realized Steve was behind him. He’d paused in front of an alleyway between an apartment building and a club that had loud jazz spilling out onto the street mixed with raucous laughter and shouting.

“You okay? Need a break?” Bucky prayed it wasn’t his asthma because no pharmacist was open this time of night and it’d be a nightmare taking the train home if he could barely breathe as it was.

In the dim light, it was hard to tell, but Steve didn’t look like he was out of breath. Bucky had been cognizant of how fast he walked for years now and he was sure he hadn’t slipped. Still, Steve’s breathing could take a turn for no reason at all.

“I’m okay,” Steve said. His voice was far away and his face was downcast, half-hidden in shadow.

“All right? So, what’s eatin’ ya?”

There was a pause as three guys stumbled out of the club clasping each other around the necks and singing some song Bucky had heard once or twice on the radio. Their drunken revelry was quickly swallowed by the night air.

“You’re Mr. Manningham.”

Bucky blinked and opened his mouth, then closed it. Finally, he said, “What?”

The moment of confusion had instilled more fervor in Steve’s words. “ _You’re_ Mr. Manningham, Bucky. _You_ are.”

Bucky let out a soft laugh. “Ya lost me, pal. Can we just keep walkin’? My dogs’ll freeze off if we don’t–”

“No!” Steve cut in and Bucky recoiled from the harshness of the reply. “You’re Mr. Manningham and I think I’m… your wife. Just your silly, stupid wife who’s goin’ crazy! And I’m starin’ at the gas light, waiting for somethin’ to happen and I just can’t do it anymore! I’m goin’ crazy, Buck!”

Bucky’s face was searing hot and he felt the chill of the wind bite the back of his neck, sure someone had overheard and was watching them now.

“All right, pal,” Bucky managed in a half-whisper. He wanted to keep walking in silence, as painful as it was. Anything but this, whatever _this_ was.

“You don’t get it!” Steve snapped angrily.

Bucky’s shame had turned to anxiety, causing him to sweat, and the cold air made him shiver. He turned a hair to the left before gripping Steve’s upper arm and pushing him back into the alley. He didn’t let go even after they were covered in shadow. “Then explain it to me,” Bucky said, voice low.

Steve’s breath was coming in angry huffs, each one puffing out white in the air around the collar of Bucky’s jacket. “You,” Steve said. “Acting like nothin’ happened. Actin’ like it’s–”

“Nothin’ happened,” Bucky cut in.

“Like hell!” Steve wrenched his arm out of Bucky’s grip. “I asked you–!”

“Steve, don’t, please, not here,” Bucky hissed desperately.

“Yes here!” He shoved on Bucky’s chest, but it was ineffectual and all Bucky did was sway on the spot. “It happened and you– You’re actin’ like it didn’t and now I’m– Well, I need an answer! I need you to– to _hit me_! Or tell me to fuck off! Pack up your things and leave!”

“You’re all balled up, Steve. Please, let’s just go home.”

“No! Hit me! That’s what you wanna do, yeah? I’m a fuckin’ queer! So, hit me! Hit me! Hit! Me!” Each word was punctuated by a muffled, gloved punch to Bucky’s chest.

“Quit it!” Bucky snapped, grabbing Steve by his wrists and crowding him against the brick edifice behind him. Steve went still, but in the dim light Bucky could still see the fire burning in his eyes, the angry tilt of his mouth. “I ain’t gonna hit you, ya fuckin’ mook. Christ.” Bucky dropped Steve’s wrists, but he didn’t back up, so aware of how close he was to Steve.

“Why not?”

Bucky made a low, guttural noise of frustration. “Why would I do that?”

“‘Cause I’m–”

“Christ!” Bucky cut in. “Quit sayin’ it, wouldja? You wanna get jumped in Midtown?”

Steve’s mouth twisted down in annoyance.

“I’m not gonna hit you ‘cause you’re my best pal and my roommate. Who’d pay half the rent if I left, huh?” It was a moot point since nine times out of ten, Bucky paid all the rent. Bucky thought the half-implied blame might deter Steve from spilling his thoughts all over the place in public, but he was wrong.

“I just need an answer,” Steve said. “I just need to know.”

Bucky knew there were cars rolling by, people hurrying home on the sidewalk just past where they were in the alleyway, sirens from a cop car somewhere a few blocks down, but all he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat and soft click in his ears when he swallowed. All he could feel was the pressure of Steve’s overlarge coat against his front. All he could smell was the sweet, dry cologne that had been a gift from Steve’s mom so many years ago, that he only wore on special occasions, that was indescribably and undoubtedly _Steve_.

Bucky could press closer, use his weight to hold Steve against the wall, anchor his hands on either side of Steve’s neck, tilt his face up. Bucky could meet him there, mouth open and wanting. Bucky could breath in the taste of him, like he hadn’t allowed himself to even _dream_ , could dip his tongue in and taste the bitter, burnt coffee they’d shared before they’d left that day.

Instead, Bucky took a step back and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He managed a tenuous smile, something flickering and counterfeit. “Bank’s closed, pal,” Bucky said.

Bucky watched in barely-contained disappointment as the fierceness died on Steve’s face, replaced quickly with resignation.

They walked to Penn Station in silence, elbows tucked in and heads down.  


  


* * *

  


_Step aside partner, it's my day_  
_Bend an ear and listen to my version_

If Bucky hadn’t heard the same Glenn Miller song every day for the past year, he wouldn’t have been able to tell what was playing on the radio, it was turned down so low to combat Steve’s persistent headaches.

Steve coughed. It was wet and deep in his chest and it caused Bucky’s heart to quicken.

“Here,” Bucky said. He slid a hand under Steve’s neck to lift him a few inches off the three pillows piled against the arm of the couch. He tilted the glass of water slightly, pouring the cold liquid into Steve’s mouth. He swallowed once, a wince pronouncing itself on his face as he did so. He breathed out heavily as if the energy it took just to swallow had exhausted him.

“Can you eat?” Bucky asked, voice soft. He let Steve back down onto the pillows. He was practically in a sitting position, but Sarah had taught him all it took to keep Steve from drowning in his own fluids, even if it was wildly uncomfortable.

Steve shook his head. Or, rather, he let his head drop to the left toward Bucky and frowned a little bit.

“Here’s a conspiracy,” Steve said, voice barely audible and raspy like he had a throat full of sand. “You stop coddling me like I’m a child.”

Bucky snorted a laugh. “Nice try, asshole,” Bucky replied. He pressed the backs of his fingers against Steve’s temples, then his forehead. The fever had died, at least. It was a minor miracle. Bucky sighed and wondered if he could scrounge up enough to buy a can of broth from the cornerstore. It was unfair how quickly the illness had come on. Just two nights ago they’d been to see _Angel Street_ , not a care in the world.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true.

Bucky regretted spending that money now that he was faced with the decision to buy drugs or food. If they hadn’t gone to the show, maybe Steve wouldn’t have gotten sick in the first place. The cold December weather had certainly been a factor.

Sarah Rogers used to say Steve worried himself into sickness. She’d say he was so concerned for other folks and how they were doing, he’d forget to think about himself. Bucky hadn’t ever really believed her, but maybe there was something to that.

After all, Steve had been intently focused on Bucky the last couple days. After the night of the show. After the alleyway. After Bucky had come so close to chasing that rabbit.

Steve had demanded an answer to a question Bucky had spent the past three months trying to forget and his answer wasn’t the answer he wanted to give and it wasn’t the answer Steve wanted to receive.

Now Steve was sick. It was hard not to see the connection.

Steve rested fitfully. Bucky, from his position on the floor by the couch, left arm resting along the blankets covering Steve’s fever-wracked frame, wished he could do more. Instead, he allowed himself the opportunity to study Steve undeterred. Even now, slick with sweat and pale and dry-lipped, Bucky still couldn’t stop thinking what it would be like to kiss him. Not momentarily, but in the abstract. To kiss Steve all the time, whenever he wanted, like it was okay, like it wasn’t wrong.

Steve’s eyebrows knitted together and he cracked his eyes open. “Buck,” he said, voice raspy from disuse.

Bucky smiled. “Need somethin’?” he asked.

Steve swallowed and winced again, the skin pulling tight around his eyes. “Don’ worry ‘bout me,” Steve said, voice slow and slurred. “Go to bed. You have work.”

Well, at least he got part of that statement right. Bucky huffed a laugh. “It’s not even 2 o’clock, pal. Little early to be goin’ to bed yet.”

Steve fell back into a fitful sleep. Bucky leaned his head on his arm and closed his eyes. In the quiet, he picked up the sounds of the radio again. “Chattanooga Choo Choo” was winding down and Bucky hummed along.

_There's gonna be_  
_A certain party at the station_  
_Satin and lace_  
_I used to call "funny face"_  
_She's gonna cry_  
_Until I tell her that I'll never roam–_

_We interrupt this program to bring you a special news bulletin. The Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor, Hawaii by air, President Roosevelt has just announced._

Bucky scrambled over to the radio and frantically turned the volume dial up until he could hear the words vibrate in his ribcage.

_The attack also was made on all naval and military activities on the principle island of O’ahu. ___

Bucky let out a shaky breath.

_We take you now to Washington._

There was a loud, sharp crash outside the door that made Bucky leap to his feet, adrenaline flushing his extremities. He skidded over to the door, away from the radio, away from it all, and wrenched open the front door.

Damita was there, both her hands held over her mouth, eyes wide. On the floor was a plate of food. The plate had cracked clean in half, the mashed potatoes and what looked like gravy had splattered the front step. There was a glass next to it, not broken, but it had spilled its contents, which looked enticingly like chicken broth.

“I hear the radio,” Damita said breathlessly.

“Go in. I’ll get this.” Bucky stepped back to allow Damita entry. She immediately made her way into the room and over to Steve. Bucky bent down and retrieved the glass. The plate was tricky, but he was able to keep most of the food on by carefully balancing it in either hand. He closed the door behind him with his foot. He went over to the sink and placed the plate there. Using a spoon, he shoveled what potatoes he could onto one of their own, chipped plates for later.

_A Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor naturally would mean war. Such an attack would naturally bring a counterattack. And hostilities of this kind naturally mean that the president would ask congress for a declaration of war. There is no doubt from the temper of congress that such a declaration would be granted._

Bucky’s hands shook as he cleared the last of the food from the broken plate. When he was finished, the let the broken plate sit in the sink. He gripped the edge of the sink, ducked his head, and closed his eyes. He took three measured breaths.

“Buck.”

Damita must have turned down the radio when she came in because Steve’s voice was clearer than Bucky expected. He gathered himself, clenched his jaw, and turned toward the living room. It was three long strides to the armchair, then two more to the couch. Bucky stayed by the armchair, partly because he felt like collapsing and wanted something to lean on.

Damita was sitting in front of Steve’s middle on the couch, her dark hand brushing wet hair away from Steve’s face methodically. She mumbled something in Spanish to him and his eyes, which were wide and alert, darted to her briefly before returning to Bucky.

Ironically, it was the best Steve had looked in a day. Bucky had hoped the sickness might have kept him from hearing the news or at least comprehending it, but it was clear from the determined set of his brow that Steve knew exactly what was going on.

“Damita brought food. You should eat,” Bucky said, although he made no attempt to fetch it.

“Bucky,” Steve said again.

Damita stood and walked to Bucky. “He is very sick.” She pointed to the kitchen. “I bring more tomorrow.”

Bucky didn’t have the strength to turn her down, so he just nodded. When she left, the apartment grew smaller until it was just Bucky, Steve, and that godforsaken radio. 

Steve was pivoted toward Bucky, leaning up on his elbow, and his big, thoughtful eyes were watching Bucky carefully. Bucky tried to hold it together, but the reality of it all was threatening to burst out of him at the seams. He was shaking, more than in his hands now. His chest constricted, his shoulders tightened up, and he gripped the back of the armchair until his knuckles were painfully white.

“Oh, Buck.” Steve held out a hand and that was all it took for Bucky to break, to rush forward in a moment of undiluted fear and wrap himself around Steve on the couch. Bucky barely fit, but Steve maneuvered himself until he was able to tuck Bucky’s head under his chin, wrap his arms around his back, and pull the blanket over them both.

Bucky heaved out a sob and breathed in the smell of stale sweat and the cologne Steve had worn to the show two nights ago. He let himself cry wracking sobs into Steve’s threadbare shirt as Steve ran fever-warm hands up and down his back, up to his neck, into his hair. He felt Steve’s breath in his hair. He felt at complete odds: safe and terrified, warm and desperately cold, in love and self-detesting.  


  


* * *

  


“Did you get home late?” Steve asked.

Steve had been asleep when Bucky returned from work, so he wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t remembered the time. The illness that had Bucky thrumming with anxiety the day before had settled neatly in Steve’s sinuses, which meant they were out of the woods.

“Worked ‘til eight,” Bucky replied. He brought over a bowl of lukewarm broth that Damita must have dropped by earlier and handed it to Steve. It was a testament to how sick he was that he didn’t complain about Bucky not taking the time to warm it up first.

“Half the guys enlisted yesterday after the news broke,” Bucky continued, purposefully avoiding Steve’s gaze while he folded a blanket and threw it over the back of the couch. “There’s a lot of slack to pick up.”

In the end, it was a good thing. Bucky’s work at the navy yard building warships had marked him as 2-A on his selective service paperwork; his job was important to the war effort. With half the workers gone, they couldn’t afford to draft the rest or they’d risk halting construction altogether.

“You going to enlist?” Steve asked.

Bucky glanced down at him sitting cross-legged on the couch taking small sips of broth. “Don’t,” Bucky said. He settled on the other side of the couch.

Steve frowned at the bowl in his hands. “I think I will,” he said.

Bucky bit back his first reply with great effort. Instead, he opted for calm when he said, “You’re a 4-F, Steve.”

Steve shrugged one bony shoulder. “I’ll go to the recruitment office in Queens when I’m better. The stuff they marked me for was– I don’t need to see the color green to know how to shoot a gun.”

Bucky took it upon himself not to mention the asthma, the diabetes, the scoliosis, the anemia which caused him to have a heart murmur. All that on top of the fact that Steve didn’t meet the height or weight requirements, even on his healthiest day.

“Steve Rogers with a gun. Now there’s a scary thought.”

Steve pushed the bowl onto their ancient, splintering coffee table and stood. He stretched his arms over his head and took the few short steps over to the radio to turn it on before returning to the couch. The short walk had nearly exhausted him, eyes half-closed as he repositioned himself against the couch arm again, bowl cradled in his lap. Bucky watched the whole affair with a frown. Steve dutifully ignored him.

Bucky immediately recognized the voice of the president on the radio, tinny and far away, like he was speaking to a large crowd. No doubt he’d been making speeches all day.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed,” Steve said.

Bucky felt his defenses rise up, his mouth flooding with indignant words at the implied accusation. “I’m not,” he said.

Steve leveled him with a stoic but plaintive look. “You are. You see those guys volunteering to fight and you think you’re worse than them ‘cause you don’t want to, but it’s okay. It’s nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

Ire rose like bile in Bucky’s throat. “What the fuck do you know about it, huh? It’s easy for you to say you’ll go straight to the recruiters the next day when they’d have to be at the bottom of the barrel to even look twice at you!”

“I’d fight if I could!” Steve snapped back. The bowl of broth slopped dangerously in his lap. “I’d be there at the front of the line if I had my choice!”

And wasn’t that the great cosmic joke? Steve, strong-willed and temperamental with a failing body had all the makings of a perfect soldier while Bucky, broad-shouldered and sturdy, paled at the very thought of having to hurt another person.

“Well, that ain’t how it is, pal, and you don’t get to tell me–”

“Bucky, shut up.”

“No! You’re gonna–”

“Bucky!” Steve motioned at the radio and Bucky finally shut his trap to listen to the president.

_I believe that I interpret the will of the congress and of the people when I assert that we will not only defend ourselves to the uttermost, but will make it very certain that this form of treachery shall never again endanger us._

There was a smattering of applause, then the newscaster came back on: _Words from President Roosevelt this afternoon before he officially declared war on the Japanese empire. We will air the full speech tomorrow morning followed by any further updates regarding the war effort–_

Bucky wasn’t sure how or when he’d done it, but he was on his feet and switching the radio off before he could question it.

“You didn’t know?” Steve asked. “They didn’t say, down at the yard?”

Bucky shook his head, back turned to Steve. He felt the panic fill up his insides until he was pouring over with it.

“I mostly worked alone today. We were all pretty spread out. I don’t…”

“You’re a 2-A,” Steve reminded him.

Bucky heard Steve place the bowl back on the coffee table again, then the soft padding of socked feet on their worn wood floors. Steve’s hand rested feather-light on the back of Bucky’s shoulder. “Buck…”

It was real. The war was real. And it would start with the Japanese, but Europe would be soon to follow. America had spent too long on the sidelines betting on the game instead of pulling their weight, and after the 1-A’s were called up to serve, after the volunteers had been dredged in, Bucky would be next, and how could he survive waist-deep in mud and blood and shit? Because Bucky knew the horrors of war; his father hadn’t been reticent about his time in the first world war. In the same way that Steve’s father had instilled in him a deep sense of patriotism and loyalty, Bucky’s father had given his son an aversion to mortality, a deep sense of moral obligation to protect, not hunt. Bucky would finish a fight – he’d been finishing fights for Steve since he could read – but he didn’t think he could shoot first. He didn’t think he could shoot at all.

“Bucky, it’s all right.”

When had he started crying again? He’d never in his life cried this much before. And what must Steve think of him? Yellow-bellied coward that he was, it must have taken all of Steve’s reserve not to lash out and tell Bucky to get a hold of himself.

“Look,” Steve said and he pushed on Bucky’s shoulder until he was facing him. “You’re a 2-A. Like you said, half the workers are gone, so they’re not gonna be happy to let you go, right? And if they try,” Steve gripped Bucky’s chin when Bucky tried to turn away again, “If they try, you register as a conscientious objector, okay?”

“I’m not a coward!” Bucky snapped and stepped back and out of Steve’s reach. “I’m not– I just don’t wanna– It’s not–”

“I’m not judging you!”

“Like hell you’re not! Gabbin’ about goin’ down to the recruiters the minute you can walk straight? The hell is that supposed to be except a taunt, huh? A way for you to say that I’m a spineless, pathetic excuse of a man who don’t wanna serve his own country?!”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up. “I never meant it like _that_! Buck, you gotta believe me! I’d never–”

“I know you hate me for bein’ like I am and not throwin’ myself in front of the first Kraut gun I see! And it ain’t fair!”

“Don’t you crow at me about _fair_!” Steve shot back. “You’re puttin’ Goddamn words in my mouth where they’d never be if you spent more than one Goddamn second actually listenin’ to what I gotta say!”

There was a beat wherein all they did was breathe. Then, Steve said, “I ain’t judgin’ you, no matter what you think. I don’t want you to go. I don’t wanna lose you, Buck. You’re all I got.”

And wasn’t that the God’s-honest truth, the one thing they had in common?

Bucky surged forward and kissed Steve, harshly at first, too hopped-up with adrenaline to take it slow. Then, he turned his head and kissed Steve like he’d never let himself imagine. And Steve kissed back. It was like every nerve in Bucky’s body was on fire, every thought he had incoherently urging him to be closer, take more.

But then Steve was pushing him back, one long-fingered hand on Bucky’s sternum. For one heart-stopping moment, Bucky was sure he’d been wrong, that whatever had happened before had been a fluke or Bucky had misread the whole thing, that the bulls would be banging down the door any minute. Steve was breathing hard and he was flushed all the way from his freckled cheeks to his neck. He tapped the side of his nose and said, “I couldn’t breathe.”

Oh. _Oh._

Bucky laughed long and hard, and he pulled Steve into a crushing hug against his chest. Instead of protesting, Steve buried his face there and wrapped his arms around his waist.

“Jerk,” Steve muttered against Bucky’s shirt.

“Punk,” Bucky replied into Steve’s hair.

  


* * *

  


“Wait, wait, wait,” Bucky said.

Steve pulled back and Bucky had to swallow a groan because the image before him was something he’d been denying himself for years: Steve with flushed cheeks, dark eyes, wet, pink lips slightly parted – and none of it brought on by illness, all of it Bucky’s doing.

Steve shifted slightly from his position on top of Bucky where he was straddling him with whip-thin legs and asked, “What?”

Bucky closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “It’s the radio. We gotta… We gotta turn off the radio.” He ran a hand over his tired eyes and then fixed Steve with a dopey look. “Please?”

Steve frowned and looked over at the radio.

 _–which is why Williams is looking so good this year. If he doesn’t get MVP or at least Player of the Year, I’ll eat my hat!_ There was soft, tinny chuckling before the co-host added, _And this coming from a Yank!_ More laughter.

 _Of course we have to consider that a lot of these guys are well within the parameters of the draft,_ the first announcer said. _Williams included._

The co-host made a noise of assent. _It’ll definitely be a season to watch. And we’d like to thank President Roosevelt for letting us keep our jobs in the meantime!_

_That’s right! That’s right. Be out of a job if he hadn’t loved baseball so much._

_Almost as much as we do!_

_Almost. Let’s talk about last season, now. The Yankees had an astounding 101 wins and the Series was certainly one for the books. One the Dodgers’ll be hardpressed to forget, at any rate._

_But what a team. The Dodgers dominated in the National League last season. Reiser, Camilli, Higbe, Wyatt – they’re all star players. Camilli alone brought in 34 home runs, 120 RBIs._

_Not enough to win the series against DiMaggio, though, huh?_

Bucky groaned and Steve laughed before getting up and turning off the radio.

“I knew you were invested, but did it really ruin the mood?” Steve asked. He laid gracelessly on top of Bucky, pillowing his arms across Bucky’s chest and resting his chin there. “You know what they say–”

“Wait ‘til next year!” Bucky and Steve intoned at the same time.

“Yeah, well, that’s not the reason, anyway,” Bucky said and he felt his face go red with embarrassment.

Steve cocked an eyebrow.

“Jeez, well, y’know how when ya… You start to think about…” Bucky made a face and Steve’s lips turned up into a smile.

“Think about what?” Steve asked.

Bucky frowned. “You know. God, please don’t make me say it.”

Steve’s eyes were practically glowing with mirth. “Say what?”

“Like, your… mouth.”

“My mouth.”

Bucky’s face felt like it was on fire. “It’s a– shit, fuck you, Steve.” Bucky covered his face with his hands and Steve laughed. The sound vibrated in Bucky’s whole body, which was as pleasant as it was insulting.

“You recite baseball stats,” Bucky eventually said, letting his hands drop, one to Steve’s side.

“I do?”

“No, I do. People do, I mean. It’s a… thing people do.”

“You havin’ bull sessions about me, Barnes?”

“Christ, I’d like to punch you right now.”

“What does reciting baseball stats do–?”

“To distract yourself!” Bucky cut in. “With somethin’… not like what you were thinkin’ about.”

Steve looked thoughtful for a moment. “Baseball stats, huh?”

“Yeah. And I can’t listen to baseball stats while we’re _necking_ ,” Bucky said, jabbing his thumb toward the radio. “It’ll ruin the whole idea.”

“How often do you gotta recite baseball stats, anyway?” Steve asked.

Bucky might’ve just knocked him off the couch, but the question seemed sincere. Still, Bucky narrowed his eyes before saying, “Enough.”

Bucky expected a laugh, a jab at his implied impropriety in public, or at the very least a crude reply. Instead, Steve leaned forward, captured Bucky’s lips in a bruising kiss, and breathed, “I love you,” into his mouth.

  


* * *

  


“I’m sick, not delirious, Bucky.”

“My hand to God, pal,” Bucky replied, sticking his hand up and raising his eyes to the ceiling. “I swear on my mom’s grave.”

“Dramatic,” Steve intoned. “But your mom’s not dead.”

Bucky pointed at Steve with the wooden spoon he was using to stir the half-broth, half-water mixture on the stove. “That’s how serious I am about this.”

“You forgot the ‘here’s a conspiracy’ bit of the delivery,” Steve said. “It’s just lying if you don’t.”

Bucky shook his head, resolute in his belief.

Steve pursed his lips and said, “The police were throwing pinball machines into the–”

“Into the river,” Bucky finished with a serious nod. “Oh, they had big hammers, too– what’re they called? Uh–”

“Sledgehammers?”

“Sledgehammers. To break ‘em up so they were easier to, y’know.” Bucky mimed lifting a piece of heavy machinery and tossing it into the river that was their living room.

Steve sighed and closed his eyes, leaning back against the barrage of pillows holding him up on the couch. He’d gone most of January without catching cold, so Bucky was inclined to be grateful that a mild cough was all Steve had.

“Catch the news at 6,” Bucky said, motioning toward the radio, which was playing some comedy shtick Steve liked. “You’ll see.” He turned off the gas and poured the hot broth into their only bowl. He reached on top of the doorless cabinet above the stove to snag the tin of Saltines. He placed the bowl and tin on the coffee table in front of Steve before taking the armchair with a huff.

“Speaking of your mom, you got a letter,” Steve said. He pointed to the table where, sure enough, a pretty white envelope sat, addressed to Bucky. Steve sat up and tucked into his meager meal while Bucky read.

After a considerable silence, Steve asked, “Everythin’ good?”

Bucky cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, yeah. It’s– she’s comin’ for a visit.”

Steve looked up in surprise. “Oh. When?”

“Train comes in tomorrow.”

“Hm. Guess it’s too late to tell her I’m sick,” Steve mused.

“Like that’d stop her.”

Steve huffed out a laugh. “Might actually make her get here faster.”

Bucky was stuck between elation and despair as he stared down at the thin, scratchy handwriting of his mother. After Bucky’s father had died six years ago, she’d packed up and moved back to Indiana with Bucky’s Aunt Sally, taking Bucky’s little sister with her. And Bucky missed them like a man missed air when he couldn’t breathe. It was probably reciprocal, judging by the way she pleaded with Bucky to come back with her every time she visited.

“What’s wrong?”

Bucky glanced up at Steve and shook his head. “No, it’s… It’s nothin’.” He plastered on a thin smile. “She, uh, she met someone, I guess. She’s gettin’ married.”

“Oh. Buck, I’m–”

“It’s good,” Bucky cut in with deliberation. “It’s real good. She deserves to be… And anyway, it’ll be good for Becca to have someone. She barely knew Dad, she was so young when he– It’s really good.”

Steve wasn’t buying it, that was clear, but he didn’t press the issue. They listened to the end of _Easy Aces_ before the nightly news came on and sure enough–

_Police Commissioner William P. O’Brien made the inaugural swing on a machine fittingly called “The Cyclone”. The decision came after the New York Supreme Court ruled pinball machines a – quote – path to petty crime, juvenile delinquency, and hardened criminality – unquote. Benjamin M. Day, head of the Society for the prevention of crime, declared that youth must be protected from corruption at all costs. Mr. Day appealed to school principals and church leaders throughout Brooklyn and Queens to co-operate with the police in eliminating the machines, which he said are stepbrothers to the slot machine and heavy contributors to youthful delinquency, as reported by The New York Sun._

Steve tossed a cracker at Bucky, hitting him square on the forehead. “Your face’ll stick that way if you’re not careful,” Steve said.

“My face ain’t no way,” Bucky said, but couldn’t help the smug grin from creeping back on his face again. “Told ya, didn’t I?”

Steve leveled Bucky with a glare, which was somehow worse than an eyeroll. “Yeah, well, I didn’t hear nothin’ about a river.”

_–loading up barges of these dastardly machines, now deformed, jagged, metal clumps of once-beloved children’s games, and taking them down the East River to live at the bottom for the rest of time._

“You pay him to say that?” Steve asked, voice flat.

“Yeah, with all that money I got comin’ outta my gills.”

“Figured as much.”

Bucky closed his eyes and tuned out the radio and the clack of Steve’s spoon against the bowl. He was nearly asleep when Steve said, voice soft and low, “We gotta move the beds back.”

Bucky couldn’t help his frown, and when he opened his eyes, Steve was staring resolutely at the bowl in his lap. Bucky looked over at their two beds that were pushed together so they could at once spread out and hold each other, depending on the weather or Steve’s health. Ten years ago, no one would’ve looked twice, but Bucky’s mom would and he wasn’t prepared to field questions, especially not from _her_ , the woman who was going to force him into his Sunday best and a church for the first time since he’d kissed Steve.

(And Steve didn’t know, and wasn’t that the kicker? Steve didn’t know and Bucky felt sick over it because Steve would know it meant _something_ , that a once God-fearing Bucky couldn’t step foot inside a church, but God help Bucky, he couldn’t.)

“Yeah,” Bucky said, and he pushed the beds apart.

  


* * *

  


“Have you heard this?”

“Hello to you, too, Steve. My day was swell, thanks for askin’,” Bucky replied. He dropped his hat by the chair, pulled out of his suspenders, and placed a brown paper bag he was carrying on the coffee table. Of all the days to come home to a willful, spitting Steve, it had to be the one he worked 16 hours straight.

“Bucky!” Steve protested. He was standing and gesticulating furiously at the radio.

_Brooklyn’s great one-day Sears sale starts tomorrow! Power tools are on super-sale! Furniture including student desks, sectional bookcases, corner cabinets, and more! Get a four-drawer chest worth $2.98 for just $2.29! Look for the green tags when you come into Sears on Bedford Avenue on Beverly Road!_

Bucky raised his eyebrows at Steve. “Those bastards.”

Steve punched Bucky in the chest, although it was more of an angry tap of his knuckles. “That’s not– They were–! Buck, they’re roundin’ up people on the west coast. FDR is, I mean! He’s– He said it’s for safety reasons and now if you got even one-sixteenth Japanese in you, you get rounded up and put into _military camps_! That’s what they’re callin’ ‘em! Military camps! And no one is even protesting! No one even knows! I went out and–”

“You went out.”

“Yeah! And–”

“You’re still sick, Steve.”

“Barely!”

“Barely is still sick!”

“Would you just listen to me?! They’re takin’ people outta their homes and puttin’ ‘em in camps and don’t that sound familiar to you at all? This is how it starts, Buck, and it’s because people are afraid and they’re blamin’ people who ain’t got nothin’ to do with–”

Bucky placed his hands on either side of Steve’s face and kissed him. Steve went pliant for a few, blessed moments before pushing Bucky away. “I’m still sick!” Steve shouted.

“Oh, _now_ you’re sick,” Bucky said, rolling his eyes.

Steve was left fuming and red in the face, but at least his tirade was over – for the time being.

“Well, what do ya wanna do about it? Hop on the first train to California and take a whole family of Japs to live here with us?”

“Bucky,” Steve admonished.

Bucky sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. “Sorry. Just– It’s been a long day.”

Steve’s eyes flicked over to the clock in the kitchen which read 9:30. “You should go to bed.”

“Haven’t eaten yet. Which reminds me–” Bucky picked up the brown paper bag and dug out a sandwich, handing it over to a wide-eyed Steve. Then, he pulled one out for himself. He unwrapped the paper around it and took a too-big bite, groaning around it.

“Jesus, Buck, how the hell did you get this? We can’t afford–!”

“Did I not mention?” Bucky threw himself down into the armchair and closed his eyes so he could fully enjoy the truly miraculous taste of bread, meat, and cheese. “Got a raise.”

Steve sat across from him on the couch, still clutching his uneaten sandwich. “What? You didn’t say. I mean, congratulations. How much?”

Bucky opened his eyes and smiled, once again feeling the same elation he’d felt earlier that day when his boss had told him the news.

“You’re talkin’ to one of just six welding instructors, pal. That’s a ten-cent raise.”

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “Per… Per week?”

Bucky couldn’t help his huge smile from encompassing his entire face, squinting his eyes at Steve’s look of disbelief. “Per hour, ya mook.”

“Jesus H. Christ.”

Bucky laughed. “Eat up, pal,” he said, motioning to the sandwich in Steve’s hands. “Plenty more where that came from.”

Steve took a tentative bite.

“I’m leading a team now,” Bucky said. He took another bite of his own sandwich and said through chipmunk-cheeks, “And they’re thinkin’ of hirin’ a couple-a dames because there’s such a labor shortage. I only got a half-day tomorrow, so I’ll stop by the pharmacist and pick up your drugs.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t, but I will anyway.”

“I’m getting paid tomorrow,” Steve said, picking at the top of his bread.

“Yeah, and now you can buy somethin’ else. Mm, speakin’ of which.” Bucky leaned forward and pulled the rolled up newspaper from his back pocket. “Gave it to me free from the deli ‘cause they were closin’ up shop for the day. Figured you’d wanna see it in person. I haven’t had the chance to look yet.”

Steve put his sandwich down and took the newspaper. He spread it out on the table and flipped through. Finally, he found the page he wanted and hummed a note of interest before he turned the paper toward Bucky.

Bucky barked out a laugh. He’d seen the final version of the drawing before Steve had sent it off to be printed, but seeing the thing in newsprint next to tiny type was a whole different experience.

It was a drawing of a soldier in uniform holding up an envelope and three pages of a letter. There was half a smile on his handsome face. The face that looked exactly like Bucky’s, if slightly rounder and more boyish.

“JUST A WORD FROM HOME” read the block text in the top corner just over a picturesque suburban home with smoke coming from the chimney. On the bottom was a paragraph in small text explaining the benefits of writing to family and friends who were overseas.

“Seven whole dollars for your ugly mug, can you believe it?” Steve said with a cheeky grin.

Bucky snorted. “You’re a shit. And that ain’t the first time they’ve paid for my ugly mug, so they – like the rest of the world – must find somethin’ worth likin’.” Bucky had been the subject of nearly a dozen ads Steve drew for various businesses, magazines, and newspapers. It was a wonder Bucky wasn’t recognized on the street by devoted fans yet.

“Here’s a conspiracy. You work for the _Brooklyn Eagle_ ,” Steve said. He retrieved his sandwich from under the paper and leaned back into the couch.

“Work for it? Steve, I _own_ it.”

“You get off on seein’ your face in print.”

Bucky laughed. “That’s not a conspiracy, pal, that’s just fact.”

  


* * *

  


_Enemy aliens living in tenements near the Brooklyn Navy Yard, rounded up by a flying squad of G-Men, today were being shipped to Ellis Island by ferry-loads for questioning. The G-Men, armed with new Federal permission to search the homes of enemy aliens without warrants, raided the houses during the night. The first batch of suspects left for the island shortly after midnight. Not under arrest, all aliens will be detained until their activities in this vital defense area have been checked thoroughly._

_The raids were made under an order issued by Attorney General Biddle yesterday which placed the New York area on the same footing as the Pacific Coast. There, enemy aliens have been cleaned out of strategic spots to thwart any fifth-column activity which would aid a Japanese invasion of the mainland._

_The FBI refused to discuss the raids._

_A lesser number of enemy aliens were taken into custody last night in Manhattan and the Bronx. Thirteen houses were raided yesterday in Jersey City. A dynamite blasting machine, maps of the Port of New York, eight short-wave radio sets, two pairs of binoculars, seven cameras, and a pair of U.S. Army Signal Corps flags were taken in the Jersey City raids._

Steve was getting sicker.

  


* * *

  


The only thing worse than one of them being laid up in bed with a hacking cough and a dangerously high fever was both of them being laid up in bed with a hacking cough and dangerously high fever.

That wasn’t completely accurate, however, since Bucky wasn’t laid up at all. He was _fine_ , honest. So what if his laces kept shifting slightly to the right as he attempted to tie his shoes?

“I’m an overseer,” Bucky announced to the room. “I oversee. I don’t even have to move if I don’t want. It’ll be…” He took a few steadying breaths because talking too much winded him. “It’ll be fine.”

He could practically hear Steve’s scowl from across the room.

“Fine,” Bucky repeated.

“My ass you’re fine.” Steve’s voice was oddly nasally making him sound about ten years younger than he was.

“Your ass I’m…” Bucky let out a long breath as the room pitched violently to the right and he attempted to keep the contents of his stomach right where they were.

“Christ,” he breathed.

Steve was at his shoulder and helping him lay down on the couch before Bucky could even protest. Steve, who was down to his skivvies because when the fevers hit, they were sweltering and unbearable, simply took Bucky’s shoes off and pulled the fraying quilt from the back of the couch over him.

“I’ll get Damita to send one of the kids to the yard and tell ‘em you won’t be in,” Steve said, smoothing back the hair from Bucky’s forehead.

“Don’ forget to put on some clothes,” Bucky replied tiredly, already feeling the warmth of sleep washing over him. He reached out a hand and patted Steve’s behind.

“Not too sick to get handsy, I see,” Steve muttered and he swatted away Bucky’s hand before leaving.

Bucky drifted in and out of sleep, waking once when Steve pressed a cup of water to his lips and again when Steve tried to convince him to take the bed for the night. Although Bucky would have fought him tooth and nail just on principle, the idea of moving from his fever-hot cocoon of pestilence to the bed just eight feet away made his head spin. Unable to form a coherent sentence, he communicated his distaste of the suggestion by burrowing deeper into the couch and falling asleep.

The next morning, Bucky felt about the same but with the added need to piss. He picked himself up off the couch and nearly hit the floor in his efforts, but then Steve was there, pushing himself under Bucky’s arm. “Where the hell are we goin’?” Steve grunted with the effort of keeping Bucky’s body upright.

“Gotta piss,” Bucky managed even though his throat felt like fire and his legs shook with the strain of keeping himself standing.

If Bucky were more lucid, he’s sure he’d be more embarrassed at having to piss while sitting because just thinking about standing for too long made his knees shake. Before he knew it, he was being led back to the couch and under the covers.

It took a few minutes to realize something was off.

“My pants,” Bucky croaked at Steve’s retreating back.

Steve was stirring something on the stove that Bucky couldn’t smell.

Then, “My shirt,” Bucky realized, touching his bare chest.

Steve came over with a bowl of broth. When did they get broth? Did Damita bring it?

“Had to strip you down. You’ve been sweating out your fever for a few hours now,” Steve replied.

Except Bucky was definitely wearing clothes when he stumbled to the bathroom not a moment ago. “When I…” Bucky blearily motioned toward the toilet. “Had clothes.”

Steve frowned and sat on the coffee table in front of Bucky. “When you went to the bathroom, you mean? That was yesterday.”

Yesterday. Christ, he’d lost a whole day to this?

“Work,” Bucky said and the kick of panic gave him the strength to hoist himself up into a sitting position. The movement irritated his lungs, though, and he started coughing, great hacking things that felt like he was being lacerated from the inside.

Steve put a hand on Bucky’s chest and said, “Don’t even worry about it, all right? You been real sick. Carlito told your boss, said they’d work it all out when you got back to work.”

Bucky tried to breathe slow and deep until finally his eyes stopped watering from the pain. He was able to focus again on Steve who, by all accounts, looked exceptionally healthier than Bucky last remembered.

“You look better,” Bucky said.

“Yeah, well, only one of us can be dyin’ at a time, didn’t you know? Here, try this.” Steve held out the bowl and Bucky reached out his hands to take it, but the weight of the bowl felt like an anvil and it teetered dangerously in his grasp. Steve steadied it and said, “I’ll do it. It’s fine.”

Bucky’s wanted to protest, but all he was able to do was grunt weakly before Steve was spoon-feeding him like a geriatric patient.

Bucky fell asleep shortly after to a song he’d never heard that Steve was humming along to, off-key and distracted, while he made purposeful, deft marks in a sketchbook.

_The home of sweet romance_  
_It wins you at a glance_  
_Gives happy feet a chance to dance_  


  


* * *

  


Bucky knew he hadn’t slept in a long time, but couldn’t be sure how long it had actually been. The coughing was an insistent and all-consuming punishment against his aching nerves. The fever had broken and Bucky was half-convinced it was because his body couldn’t afford to devote any energy to anything that wasn’t coughing.

Bucky finally fell asleep and he had a nightmare that he was swimming in his own blood and Steve was there mopping it up and speaking some garbled language that Bucky couldn’t understand and Bucky told him to stop because he would get his nice whites all dirty and he knew how hard blood was to get out, he’d gotten in enough fights to know and his ma would ream him good if he came home again covered in blood (but at least it was Bucky’s this time, he’d point out) and his ma would just shake her head and laugh except Sarah was dead and Bucky was, too, because no one lost that much blood and lived.

When Bucky woke up, it was to find Steve running a hand through his hair, fingertips soft against Bucky’s scalp. Steve didn’t seem surprised to see Bucky’s eyes open, but his eyebrows shot up when Bucky said, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Steve replied. “You with me?”

Bucky let out a slow breath and said, “Where else’d I be?”

He coughed and it was deep and wet and when he looked at his hand, it was covered in blood. He blinked, doe-eyed and delirious for a long moment before he was able to convince himself it was real.

“Here.” Steve took Bucky’s hand and wiped it down with a handkerchief, smearing the blood away.

“Wha–?” Bucky closed his eyes tight and buried his face in the couch pillow before he was able to face Steve again. “What’s wrong with me?”

Steve shook his head. He looked pale, although Bucky saw now it was his stolid and unaffected look, not one brought on by illness. It was the same look he had the months leading up to his ma’s death.

“What’s wrong with me?” Bucky managed to ask again.

“Doc’s coming tomorrow to take a look,” Steve replied. “Said he’s probably gonna want an X-ray.”

Bucky was too tired to point out that there was no way they could afford a doctor, let alone an X-ray, but judging by Steve’s face, he was already well aware.

“The doctor was a friend of Mom’s,” Steve said, answering the unasked question. “He said he’d do it as a favor.”

Bucky snorted a laugh and regretted it as the pain lanced through his chest. “Here’s a conspiracy – Steve Rogers actually accepts a favor.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a first for everything,” Steve replied with a small smile.

His name was Dr. Henderson and he was a young man with dark-almost-black hair and a thin mustache. Bucky allowed himself to be prodded and handled like a piece of meat while Steve fidgeted in the background. Steve answered the questions, mostly because Bucky was going in and out of consciousness as it was, sleep pulling him under just as soon as he woke back up again to the cold press of a stethoscope to his chest or a thermometer pressed into his mouth.

X-rays, that was what they needed. Goddamn X-rays. Which was fine, Steve assured him later, pressing Bucky’s hair back from his forehead from where he sat in the bend of Bucky’s fetal form, because the hospital remembered his ma and so they’d do it for free, which was real nice of ‘em, only Bucky could barely keep his eyes open so how were they going to get to the hospital?

“–wish I could carry you, ‘cause I would and we should be there anyway, Buck, I know that but Goddammit, there ain’t nothin’ I can do and it’s gonna–”

_Your old form like a clinging vine_  
_Your lips so warm and sweet as wine_  
_Your cheek so soft and close to mine, divine_  


  


* * *

  


“I feel fine.” The statement was followed by a two-minute coughing fit, Steve glaring stalwart and unconvinced at Bucky in the meantime.

“I feel _better_ ,” Bucky amended. And he did. Compared to how he’d felt 24 hours previously, he thought he could conquer the world.

“Yeah, well, let’s start with your shoes. It’s cold out,” Steve said.

Once Bucky was properly bundled up, they made the agonizingly slow trip to the hospital. It was fifteen blocks and Bucky knew they couldn’t spring for a cab, so he steeled himself against the biting February air and trudged onward. A layer of compacted snow on the road made walking that much more difficult, plus Bucky had to stop every twenty feet or so to catch his breath and cough more blood up into a handkerchief (which was fine, it was fine, everything was fine).

They’d get the results of the X-rays in three days’ time. Until then, Bucky was back on bedrest. The diagnosis was bleak no matter how they spun it, though. Coughing up blood was a pretty obvious marker for tuberculosis, which meant a sanatorium.

“I ain’t stayin’ in no Goddamn sanatorium for a _year_ ,” Bucky proclaimed to the streets once they were out of the hospital.

“Yeah, well, good news is we couldn’t afford to put you up there even if we wanted,” Steve pointed out. He seemed strangely chipper considering Bucky’s future of doing absolutely nothing for a year or more, of making no money and not being able to provide because he’d be stuck in a bed for at least three months, followed by doctor-approved meanderings around their home, and then, assuming Bucky was still improving, short walks in the neighborhood.

“I’m an invalid,” Bucky said once they were safely tucked away from the worst of the cold in their apartment. Steve pointed to the rickety wooden chair that moonlighted as a table for discarded clothes by their bed and Bucky sat heavily.

Bucky had spent his time sick on the couch and in his absence, his bed had turned into Steve’s work area; the made bed was littered with sketchbook pages and clipped newspaper ads and a magazine or two. Within reach was a newly-bought Brooklyn Eagle and an unopened envelope.

Bucky swiped them both up while Steve clattered around the kitchen area. He came back with a damp washcloth just as Bucky was turning over the newspaper.

“Fuck, is that the date?” he asked. He tried to remember when he’d gotten sick. February 22nd? No, 23rd. And somehow he’d lost close to a week of time. “Christ, how sick was I?” He took the cloth that Steve offered him and ran it over his forehead.

“You were out for awhile. Had me worried. I, uh, wrote your mom.”

“Christ,” Bucky breathed. He’d felt like death warmed over, but he hadn’t realized how close he’d come. He was suddenly and inexplicably tired, like all the lost sleep from the past week was demanding to be dealt with now. He tossed the newspaper back on the bed. He was left holding the envelope. He rubbed the washcloth across the back of his neck and turned over the letter. It was addressed to him – the name _James Buchanan Barnes_ pressed into the thick paper. “Selective Service Headquarters” was stamped in the top right corner, a beacon of nausea.

“Buck…” Steve’s jaw shifted slightly. He sat across from Bucky on the bed, eyes never leaving the envelope. “I was gonna tell you.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. He was tired and malnourished and his hands shook and he really couldn’t be expected to read anything in his condition.

Steve tentatively took the letter from his hand and said, “Want me to…?”

Bucky stood too quickly and his vision went dark and spotty. He switched on the radio before curling up on the couch.

_Williams said that the matter of his draft deferment had been entirely up to the draft board. Williams wasn’t discussing Red Sox contract terms, but it was reliably reported that he would receive between $25,000 and $30,000 for his fence-busting activities this year. His .406 batting average last year topped both leagues, so he would be easily worth that, it was pointed out._

“Do what you want,” Bucky said evenly once he was safely under his blankets.

_The slim, 23-year-old Williams was formerly classified as 1-A, subject to immediate call, and had long been expecting to shoulder a gun. An appeal was instituted on his behalf, however, when it was learned that he was the sole support of his mother._

  


* * *

  


“What the _hell_ are you doing?”

Bucky groaned loudly and slumped forward. He had hoped to sneak out before Steve woke up, but Steve was a light sleeper at the best of times and he’d been on high alert since Bucky got sick, ready to rush around at the slight clearing of a throat or a sniffle.

“Nothin’,” Bucky mumbled and slipped his other boot on and started slowly lacing it up.

“Yeah, sure looks that way. Where the hell are you going? You’re not even supposed to be walkin’ around the house.”

Bucky let out a long breath. “I feel fine. I been fine for a couple days–”

“You can barely stand up without–”

“–so I figured I’d stop in at the yard and just let Hank know I’d be comin’ in soon when I’m better.” Bucky finally looked up at Steve who had his arms folded across his chest.

Bucky had grown up reading Steve’s face and right now what he saw wasn’t great. A slight uptick of his mouth, eyebrows drawn, shoulders sloped downward.

“What?” Bucky snapped.

“It’s… Buck, I tried to tell ‘em, but with the war going on and everything.”

“Steve, what?” Bucky clenched his jaw to hold back the dread that was quickly settling in the back of his throat.

“You don’t have a job,” Steve said. “Hank said they had to replace you.”

Bucky couldn’t help the strangled sound that leapt from his mouth. He buried his face in his hands. That was his one break, his one achievement in his shit-show of a life and it had been taken from him. And he couldn’t even fight for it back. He couldn’t even blame Hank for moving on because he’d been out for weeks now. But that job was the only thing keeping him and Steve afloat.

The selfish, craven part of him niggling at the back of his mind reminded him that it was also his ticket out of the war and now he’d just shot to top of the list.

Suddenly, the draft summons made more sense.

“Bucky, I’m so sorry,” Steve said and suddenly his cool, soft fingers were in Bucky’s hair, on his neck, pushing his head back so he could look at Steve, kneeling between Bucky’s legs. “I’m sorry. I’m real sorry. This is my fault and I swear I’ll make it right.”

Bucky wasn’t crying, but it was a close thing and he sniffled so he wouldn’t start. He shook his head slightly. “Not your fault, pal.”

Steve smiled sadly. “I think I got you sick, Buck. So it’s a lot my fault.”

“I hate to be a downer, pal, but if you had this, you’d be dead,” Bucky pointed out.

Steve shrugged a shoulder. “Doc says I could be a carrier, y’know. Not had any of the symptoms or… something.” His hands traveled down Bucky’s neck and rested on the crook of his shoulder.

Bucky sighed and dropped his eyes. “Guess that means we can’t kiss no more, huh?”

Steve pressed his lips to Bucky’s forehead, then his temple, then the top of his cheekbone just under his eye. “Probably not on the mouth,” he said, leaning back. “Not for awhile.”

“I guess this is payback for all the times I got you sick,” Bucky said with a wry smile.

Steve patted Bucky’s thigh and said, “Let’s get you back in bed.”

Once curled up under the blankets, Bucky wondered about their rent, their heating, their food and water and clothes. He wondered about the draft and his summons and he wondered about Steve who was healthy now, but was constantly toeing the line and perched on the edge of fatal sickness.

“Thinkin’ so loud I can’t hear the radio,” Steve said from the armchair. He was curled up with a sketchbook and a blanket.

_Slacks, gaining in popularity with women each day, also have been giving men moments of deep concern. I admit that slacks serve a fine purpose for women when they are engaged in sports, in relaxing about the house and other casual occasions. But they have no place with high heels and fur coats trotting down important avenues of business when there is little sensible excuse for not wearing a dress._

“Probably for the best,” Bucky remarked. “I ain’t ever heard someone so half-witted.”

Steve snorted a laugh. “Yeah, well, here’s a conspiracy: we finally stop caring what women wear like it’s any of our business.”

“Women in tuxedos,” Bucky said, closing his eyes and smiling dreamily. “That ain’t a bad thought. Could really see their gams all shapely and–”

A pillow landed on Bucky’s head and he laughed, which caused him to cough.

“Fantasize when I’m _not_ in the room,” Steve said over Bucky’s coughing.

The good news was, there wasn’t any blood. But the reminder that he was sick and therefore didn’t have a job evaporated any good feeling he had procured in the moment.

“Steve, what’re we gonna do?” Bucky asked quietly. He hugged the pillow Steve had thrown at him close to his chest. “How’re we gonna live without my job?”

“Didn’t realize my Cary Grant theory held so much water,” Steve replied evenly. “Quit bein’ so dramatic.”

Bucky scowled. “Steve–”

“You’re not the only person here, Buck. I’m working, too, you know. I got bumped to the top of the list at the Eagle. Ad agents will contact me before any other artist if they need a commission. I stopped around local businesses a little last week when Damita was watching you and I’ve got a few things lined up there.”

“That’s good,” Bucky said. “That’s great.” Bucky didn’t point out that when winter came around again, Steve would get sick and be out of work for a month or more and what if Bucky still couldn’t work? He didn’t point out that sometimes Steve’s line of work ran dry for no reason at all and left them completely reliant on Bucky’s wages to eat for weeks at a time.

_One very prominent downtown lawyer I spoke with said, “I told my wife if I ever caught her on Fulton Street wearing slacks at high noon, I’d consider it grounds for divorce. When I meet my wife on the street, I want to see a real woman!” His companion, a young realtor who is soon to leave for army duty added, “The day they take me to a hospital with a bullet wound, please pray that my first conscious sight will not be some daffy woman in an overseas cap. When I look at a woman other than a nurse, I want to see something different from a female version of my uniform.” In other words, American men don’t want their women hiding in sackcloth._

“Idiotic,” Steve muttered as his pencil scratched across the paper in his lap. A short silence followed while the barbaric newscaster switched programs. “I’ll head down to the service office tomorrow,” Steve said, eyes locked on his drawing. “Let ‘em know you can’t report. Doctor’s orders.”

Bucky tried not to feel a deep, satisfying relief, but it settled in his bones anyway.  


  


* * *

  


The doctor had said there might be a relapse of symptoms which could be caused by aggravation of the lungs, but Bucky hadn’t expected it to happen so violently. He was playing cards with Steve, sitting up and not even feeling lightheaded for it, when a particularly bad bout of coughing hit. He hadn’t coughed up blood in a full 24 hours, and he tried to hold it back, but then he was spewing mouthfuls of red. Steve panicked because how could he not with Bucky wide-eyed, cupping handfuls of blood in delirium? Bucky was unable to move for five straight minutes while Steve grabbed a bowl, a towel, a cup of water.

The taste and smell of blood was overwhelming and Bucky had never been good with blood in the first place so he vomited and he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking where they clutched the bowl with white-knuckled fingers. Steve led him over to the toilet, which was better because his throat was filling with blood faster and faster. His breaths were shallow and gurgling and he wanted it to stop, but it wouldn’t and he was so afraid to die, so afraid to leave forever because then who would take care of Steve?

Steve said something that Bucky couldn’t hear over the sound of his own heartbeat and then he was gone, the apartment door slamming so hard behind him that the radio skipped and went fuzzy. Bucky waited, coughing up blood into their toilet to the sound of static. He thought of his mom and his sister and the wedding he’d never see. He thought of Steve and how deeply he felt for him, how he’d do anything for him, how he _had_ done everything for him including denouncing God and choosing to burn in eternal hell. He thought it was worth it. He thought, even given their short time together, it was really, really worth it.

  


* * *

  


Bucky lost time. He thought maybe the doctor had come and gone a few times or maybe just once. Every voice was a muddled caricature of the real thing, a warbling, monotonous drone that occasionally dragged him out of sleep. He remembered Steve looking pale and stalwart, face pinched like he was trying to figure out a particularly difficult math problem and Bucky wanted to tell him to quit worrying because he’d only make himself sick, too, but Bucky’s mouth didn’t seem to work right half the time.

Damita came, too, and another woman. Or maybe it was just Damita because Bucky couldn’t see too well. His eyes felt heavy, like someone was pressing down on them. Damita sang to him, or maybe that was the radio or maybe it was a dream or maybe there wasn’t music at all, but sometimes it went like this:

_Why are the stars always winkin' and blinkin' above?_  
_What makes a fellow start thinkin' of fallin' in love?_

Bucky got trapped in a net once. His fingers wiggled uselessly through the holes and he cried out because he was stuck and helpless and he couldn’t do anything to free himself. Steve woke him up that time because he’d just been tearing at the blanket which already had enough holes in it without Bucky putting more in it. That was silly, Bucky thought it was silly, and he tried to make Steve see how silly it was, tried to smile, but everything he did just made that crease between Steve’s brow grow deeper.

When he got better, Bucky thought, he was gonna have to smooth that line out. He was gonna have to make sure that line stayed gone for good, even if it meant having to keep his thumb planted right there in the middle of Steve’s forehead for the rest of his life.

“That’s quite the commitment you’re proposing,” Steve replied because Bucky had said that out loud, he guessed. Sometimes he did that.

Bucky laughed delightedly and pulled the blanket to cover his mouth, shy as all hell even though this was _Steve_ , but Steve had said _proposing_ and that got Bucky thinking.

Steve rolled his eyes and the line between his brows softened slightly. “You wanna marry me, Barnes?” he asked. He said it like he asked bullies if they’d like to step outside, if they’d like to go another round with blood dripping down Steve’s chin and nose. He said it like the challenge it was.

“Soon as I’m better, punk,” Bucky replied. He was the only one who could match Steve’s fervor with sincerity and just like every other time, it cut right through Steve’s demeanor. It softened him around the edges, like butter. He _melted_. Steve melted for Bucky, and wasn’t that the sweetest thing?

  


* * *

  


Bucky knew a prayer when he heard it and it filled his sick, wasted body with equal parts fury and guilt. No one should be praying for him, least of all Steve. Well, it wasn’t Steve. At least, Bucky didn’t think it was. The voices were clear, but it was hard to grasp who was speaking and about what. When something was said, it was like trying to grip water, the words slipping through Bucky’s mind meaninglessly.

But he he knew a prayer when he heard it.

“Fuckin’ stop,” Bucky managed to say, or some approximation of it. Either way, it got the point across because _whoever_ stopped spouting nonsense and crowded up into his space.

It was Steve. Of course it was Steve. For all his moaning and groaning about the Church and guilt and extravagant cathedrals lending shade to the poor, he was a Catholic boy through-and-through. They couldn’t beat that out of him, apparently.

Bucky drifted in and out after that, but he stayed awake mostly. Steve was quiet, but he was close. He sat on the floor next to the couch, arms crossed and resting in front of Bucky’s head on the couch where he placed his chin and watched. Bucky couldn’t imagine what he must look like or how Steve could stand to be so close. The stench alone could have curled the hairs at the back of his neck.

Steve spoke again. Not a prayer, but a question, and it took Bucky a long time to grasp the words, then the meaning. His mind trudged through the sludge of illness and weakness until he finally understood.

“Was it society or God?” Steve had asked.

Society or God. Both, Bucky wanted to answer, but that was too easy and only a half-truth anyway. The fact of the matter was, it didn’t matter.

“God doesn’t hate you, Buck,” Steve said imploringly. So maybe Bucky said something, but he didn’t remember. Well, whatever it was, it was probably true. And anyway, how else would you explain how Bucky felt? If this wasn’t righteous punishment, Bucky didn’t know what else it could be.

“It’s TB, Buck, not a… not a punishment.”

One in the same, pal.

An answer: society told Bucky that God hated him, that Bucky was wrong, that Bucky was broken and sick and disturbed and perverted. And if God thought that about him, then He and Bucky couldn’t really be on speaking terms, could they? If the same could be said for Steve, then that wasn’t a God Bucky could trust, either, because no one – higher power or otherwise – could look at Steve Rogers and think he deserved anything but the world.

Steve didn’t cry, but it was probably a close thing. His eyes and nose were all red. Bucky reached out a hand to touch Steve’s arm in what he imagined might be comforting way, and was shocked when a pale, mottled skeletal claw came into view. Still, he gripped Steve’s arm and said, “Yeah, all right, don’t get all weepy on me.”

Steve laughed and Bucky let himself sink into the sound of it.  


  


* * *

  


  
Who turned off the radio?  


  


* * *

  


  
Bucky spent a lot of time watching the trains down by the yard. There was something thrilling about watching the track switch, like he was watching a tangible, visible change of fate. Knowing that if that track didn’t switch, the whole world might be a different place the next hour, day, week, year.

It was like that. A track switch. Bucky had been headed toward a full-on collision and then something changed and now everything was reversed. Steve was laid up in the bed, which was probably less comfortable than the couch, but offered more room and better ventilation with the windows cracked.

And Bucky felt better. Not good, exactly, but lighter and simpler. It made sense that even his immune system would finally do its job once Steve dipped into another of his routine illnesses. This one seemed to be a cold – no blood to speak of yet, anyway.

The only symptom Bucky couldn’t place was the weeping. Not crying or sobbing, but just a stream of silent saline from Steve's eyes that never seemed to ease up, even while he slept. The shaking, the paleness, the fever-hot and sweat-cold dichotomies were all to be expected. The weeping was something else.

Damita came by several times during that first week of Steve’s invalidity. She let herself in; Steve must have given her a key when Bucky was sick. She dropped off food and blankets and she murmured words of consolation to Steve in Spanish. Steve didn’t reply much. Or, if he did, it was a raspy _thank you_ or clipped yes’s and no’s to questions she posed. It was rude, frankly, but Steve had never been known for his geniality when he was sick.

The radio had been real soulful lately. Bucky liked one particular song that came on regularly.

_Now add a couple of flowers, a drop of dew,_  
_Stir for a couple of hours 'til dreams come true._  
_Add to the number of kisses, it's up to you._

He hummed along the first few times it came on, but then he noticed that Steve’s weeping problem would get worse when he did. Bucky tried not to take offense, he really did, but his singing was apparently _that bad_

He hummed a little quieter.  


  


* * *

  


  
_That should be an interesting concert at Carnegie Hall on Sunday night, with Duke Ellington performing at the piano, Paul Draper tapping, Jimmy Savo singing and pantomiming and Antonio and Rosario doing their Spanish dances._

“Gol-ly,” Bucky said with a low whistle. “What a line-up. Wish we coulda scored tickets to that instead of _Angel Street_ , huh?”

Bucky glanced over to Steve who was sullen and drowsy, but sitting up on the couch. That was an improvement. Bucky hadn’t realized until Steve hoisted himself up and pulled off his undershirt to cool off his fevered body that his hair had grown exceedingly long. It went past his ears now where it curled slightly. It made him look younger.

“ _Angel Street_ ,” Steve mumbled wearily, then shook his head.

_Duke Ellington has few peers as representative of jazz, this country’s most interesting contribution, next to the Negro spirituals, to the music of the world. Jimmy Savo, Paul Draper, Duke Ellington! Three artists from different fields, with different backgrounds, different media, and all tops in their lines._  


  


* * *

  


  
_The wild demonstration, touched off by a series of incidents arising from the shooting last night of a soldier by a policeman, early this morning was limited to the breaking of plate-glass windows by looters taking advantage of police preoccupation._

“That’s bullshit. That’s such goddamn bullshit and they–” Steve coughed for thirty-some seconds. “They Goddamn know it.”

Bucky hummed his agreement. Anything more would incite a speech and that–

“You know the problem with all this is that they’re looking at it from the outside. They see a bunch of _looters_ ” – more coughing – “when they should be lookin’ at giant class discrepancies. They’re _looting_ ” – coughing – “because they’re in need and doing what it takes to survive. Christ.”

Well, so much for heading off the speech before it began. Steve’s fervent distaste for the news at least meant he had his mental health back. It had been touch-and-go for awhile; he’d been delirious, unresponsive to anything Bucky said or did.

Steve had garnered enough energy for another bout of ranting when a hard, sharp knock came at their door. Steve blinked owlishly at the door; it was nearing 10 at night and Damita and her brood had long gone to bed.

Steve soldiered up and over to the door, the frayed blanket over his shoulders dragging against the floor like a too-long cape. He opened the door and a man stood there, towering over Steve even though he was hunching his shoulders forward. He was a colored guy, maybe 25, and when he spoke, his voice was strangely accented.

“I am sorry to bother you.”

“Marco. Jesus, what happened?” Steve reached out and pulled Marco inside, shutting the door behind him. Marco slouched forward into their living room. His dark eyes roamed the scant apartment and never seemed to land on anything in particular.

“Sit,” Steve said. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

Bucky frowned and looked Marco over again once more before his eyes caught on the small but rather deep-looking gash on his temple.

Steve headed into the kitchen. “Our kit’s under the bed,” Bucky reminded him and went to the back of the room to search. He came up empty and when he turned around, Steve was already pressing a warm cloth to the gash on Marco’s temple, the first aid kit open on his lap. The kit in question was really a market box filled with miscellaneous alcohols, tape, gauze, and other assorted items. Marco flinched when Steve pressed the alcohol-soaked end of the towel to the wound. It came back red.

“What happened?” Steve asked.

Marco’s eyes flicked up to Steve’s and Bucky became acutely aware of how close they were. He’d bristle at the very notion, but Steve would knock him down if he ever got possessive, so he tried hard to feel passive about the whole thing.

Marco flicked his chin toward the radio in answer.

_The most recent numbers we’re getting are four slain, 195 injured, 363 arrested. All the dead were Negroes, as were approximately 140 of the injured. Forty policemen, including two captains, were among those hurt. More than 9,000 police were on duty, keeping the streets clear._

Steve’s jaw twitched as he refocused his efforts on Marco’s wound.

“I was just trying to get out,” Marco said. “The riots are–”

“They’re _protests_ ,” Steve interjected.

Marco raised an eyebrow. “There is no difference to the police.”

Steve wiped his hands on his pants and reviewed his handiwork. Marco’s wound was now covered by a swatch of gauze and tape. “Sorry,” Steve said.

“No, I’m sorry. I have overstayed my welcome.”

“No, Marco, please. It’s fine. Stay as long as you need.”

“I should go. I need to catch the train.”

“Where are you going?”

“New Orleans, for awhile. Home.” Marco shrugged. “My mother misses me, anyway.” He gave Steve a wry smile.

“Well, be safe? Write when you get there.”

Marco smiled a real smile this time and Bucky might have gone a little weak at the image of this young, fit man smiling, but as things were... Bucky turned away and stared aimlessly at their beds, feeling suddenly like he was stumbling upon a conversation meant to be private.

There was the shifting of cloth, barely heard over the radio, then the brush of skin and Steve saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t, I’m sorry.”

Bucky turned back to find Steve red in the face and a hand over his mouth.

“Right, yes, of course. I forgot,” Marco said. He stood and stepped back toward the door. “Well, thank you. I just wanted to say good-bye before I…”

Steve nodded and finally let his hand drop. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’ll hear from you soon?”

“Good-bye, Steve.”  


  


* * *

  


  
_For more than an hour, the 26,000 visitors and navy yard workmen who witnessed the event had stood shivering in the raw wind beneath the leaden sky. But for possibly half a minute after the USS Missouri rode free of the ways on which she had been under construction, the sun peeked forth to limn the flag-draped vessel in all of her grim gracefulness._

“Seems like you just started working on her, Buck, and now she’s done,” Steve said softly. He was curled up, looking miserable on the couch with his sweat-slick hair pushed away from his face, too red from fever. This illness, it seemed, was unrelenting.

“It only took so long because I wasn’t there to help out,” Bucky said with a grin.

“Here’s a conspiracy,” Steve said. He closed his eyes. “You’ve been down there every day helping out.”

“Hey!” Bucky protested. “If I had been there, it’d have gotten done in a _month_ , you mark my words, Rogers.”

Steve buried himself deeper under the covers.  


  


* * *

  


  
_The United States had its first citizen among the saints of the Roman Catholic Church today after the canonization of Mother Frances Xavier Cabrini in one of the most colorful ceremonies of the church._

Steve hummed an interested note and let his head drop fractionally.

“Ay, Rubito. Quedate quieto.”

Damita’s strong, slim fingers pushed against Steve’s jaw to keep his head straight while she trimmed the back of his neck deftly.

“I should be saint,” Damita said with a stoic look.

Bucky snorted a laugh and Steve bit his lip to keep from laughing.

“My miracle is you are still alive,” Damita continued.

The humor immediately dropped from Steve’s face and as if on cue, he started coughing, his whole body shaking with the effort to take another breath. When the episode ended, Damita clicked her tongue and continued evening out the back of Steve’s hair.

_A fanfare of silver trumpets echoed through the spacious basilica to announce the canonization of Mother Cabrini. Then the huge bronze bells of the church began pealing a message of rejoicing and those in the Holy City’s 500 churches joined in while the Pontiff recited a Te Deum of thanksgiving._  


  


* * *

  


  
_He played in the Negro league this Summer, and the three Dodger ivory hunters who scouted him rate him A-1 as a shortstop prospect. Granting that their estimate is correct, Robinson represents for his race an ideal candidate to crash through the invisible color line in what, from time to time, has been called our national pastime._

Bucky whistled low. “Well, leave it to the Dodgers, right?”

Steve groaned and Bucky was sure it had more to do with his perpetual illness and not to do with the news of Jackie Robinson. It felt more and more like Steve had been sick for years instead of mere weeks. As it was, Damita had come over to cook something for them. She was abnormally quiet and her frantic movements in the kitchen denoted something was off, but Bucky took his cue from Steve who was equally reticent. That is, barring the initial conversation when she knocked on the door and Steve had said, “Mi más sentido pésame.” Bucky didn’t know the translation, but he knew what it meant: a death in the family. One of Damita’s many extended family members had passed away.

Damita had brought one of her brood, a dark-skinned girl of maybe 13 with big, brown eyes. She’d been staring at Bucky since they’d arrived with a look of barely concealed disdain. He tried not to take it too personally, but when Steve wandered off to the toilet, Bucky took the opportunity to speak to her.

“Hey,” Bucky said.

The girl’s wide eyes somehow became wider and her frown more pronounced. She was pressed against the wall by the radio with her arms folded over her chest.

“Do you even speak English?” Bucky asked.

The girl’s mouth fell open, then closed in a tight line before she finally replied, “Yeah.”

“Oh. Uh, so how old are you?” Bucky cursed his inexperience with kids. If he were Steve, he’d already be showing her his baseball card collection or amateur, self-made comic book. But all he had to his name was a collection of well-worn science fiction books. He half-turned back to his bed where he knew the paperbacks were stashed underneath and considered grabbing them as a last resort conversation piece.

“Twelve,” the girl finally replied.

“Oh. Swell,” Bucky said. “What’s… your name?” He swallowed, then quickly added, “I’m Bucky.”

“I know,” she said. “Steve talked about you a lot.” She stared at him a moment before finally letting her arms fall to her sides, pushing off the wall, and heading over to perch on the arm of the couch. “I’m Luisa.”

“Luisa. Nice to meet you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “We met before, y’know.”

“Oh.” Shit.

Luisa cracked a small smile. “It was a long time ago. I was real little.”

Bucky tried to remember which of Damita’s visits entailed a surly, pre-teenaged companion. He was coming up blank.

“So,” Luisa said and her smile turned into a devious little smirk. “How long have you been–”

“Listo!” Damita cried out.

Steve shuffled back to the couch and sat miserably huddled in the middle while Damita spooned out soup in a chipped bowl for him.

“Dodgers’re gonna win with Robinson,” Steve said in a low voice, probably to himself, although Bucky was close enough to pick it up.

“Wait ‘til next year!” Bucky recited with faux cheer.

Luisa narrowed her eyes at him and he pointedly ignored her.  


  


* * *

  


  
_One of the most constructive suggestions to be found in “American Sexual Behavior and the Kinsey Report” can be found on page 40. I quote, “But obviously sexually behavior does not develop in anything the same way, to the same degree or with the same speed in all boys. Taking this into account, it is plain that the sex education which most parents give to their offspring is both too little and too late,” unquote._

Bucky dropped his head to the side to look at Steve who had his red, stuffy nose stuck between the pages of that same book, eyes flitting feverishly back and forth across its yellow pages.

“Can’t believe this is on the radio,” Bucky commented from his prostrate position on the couch.

“This is…” Steve paused and let his eyes drift toward the ceiling. “It’s a lot,” he said. Then, unprompted, he started reading from the book: “Males do _not_ represent two discrete populations; heterosexual and homosexual. The world is not to be divided into sheep and goats, and not all things are black nor all things white. It is a fundamental of taxonomy that nature rarely deals with discrete categories. Only the human mind invents categories and tries to force facts into separated pigeon-holes. The living world is a continuum in each and every one of its aspects. The sooner we learn this concerning human sexual behavior, the sooner we shall reach a sound understanding of the realities of sex.”

Bucky scrambled up into a sitting position. “That’s… I mean, you always said you like both…”

Steve wiped a stray tear from his cheek and shook his head. Then, he let out a wet laugh. “I thought I was broken, y’know. Sick.”

“Technically you _are_ sick,” Bucky said. It was a bad joke and as such, Steve didn’t justify it with a reply.

“I mean, this just proves… Well, it’s not _proof_. But it’s real and it’s a scientific study. It’s… I’m not…”

“Aw, Stevie, c’mon, you were never broken.”

Steve just shook his head and closed the book over his finger.

Bucky found himself moving from the couch to the floor by Steve’s feet. He looked up at his best friend, his confidante, the only person he’d ever really, truly loved and said, “Here’s a conspiracy. You wrote that book. You took up a pseudonym, faked a doctorate and a scientific study, all so you could let all the other fellas and dames in the world who’re struggling with this same shit know that they’re not sick.”

Steve let out a shaky breath.

“And ain’t that the sweetest thing you ever heard?” Bucky asked with a grin. “My guy’s a bona fide hero.”  


  


* * *

  


  
_Dixie segregationalists today formed battle lines in an effort to preserve the South’s traditional color barriers in spite of the U.S. Supreme Court’s historic decision that came down yesterday. The possibility of the long delay tempered reaction among white Southerners which ranged from appeals for calm to blunt warnings that no court decision can overthrow segregation in the South._

“The more things change, the more they stay the same,” Bucky muttered.

Steve was asleep. He’d grown sicker. Where before it had been a relentless illness, now it had overcome him completely and he was confined to his bed more often than not. The lack of restful sleep and lack of appetite made him look older somehow, his hair thinner and the lines of his face more pronounced. Bucky didn’t think about their finances, their apartment, their dwindling food supply. Damita had been a godsend in that regard, at least. But God, all Bucky wanted to do was get back to work.  


  


* * *

  


  
_They won't make today a red-letter day in Brooklyn. They'll print it in letters of gold from now on because it's only the greatest date in the history of the batter borough – the day those darling Dodgers finally won the World Series! At exactly 3:45 yesterday afternoon at the Stadium, the Brooks got the third out of a 2-0 victory over the Yankees in the seventh and deciding game! ___

Bucky danced around the living room, whooping excitedly while Steve grinned, tired and drunk on Coldene, from his spot on the couch.

“You said it’d happen one day, Buck, didn’t you?”

“Ah, shit, yeah I did! We all did! No more ‘wait ‘til next year!’, huh? Jesus, I’m still wound up about it!” Bucky collapsed into the armchair but couldn’t keep himself from grinning, big and wide. His display today had been nothing like the one the day before when they’d listened to the game itself with bated breath. It still felt unreal.

_And when they print calendars over there, they won't bother with celebrities. Not good enough! They'll have pucker-faced Johnny Podres, the most heroic pitcher in Dodgertown since Dazzy Vance and the only Brooklyn thrower ever to win two games in a Series! It was Podres' brilliant, crushing pitching which ruined the AL champions, sending them down to their fifth-Series loss in 21._

“Fuck the Yanks,” Steve said with a grin.  


  


* * *

  


_The judge made the following statement, and I quote, “I do not believe that ‘Howl’ is without even the slightest redeeming social importance. The first part of ‘Howl’ presents a picture of a nightmare world; the second part is an indictment of those elements in modern society destructive of the best qualities of human nature; such elements are predominantly identified as materialism, conformity, and mechanization leading toward war. It ends in a plea for holy living. In considering material claimed to be obscene, it is well to remember the motto: ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense.’ – unquote. ___

__“Evil to him who thinks evil,” Steve translated before Bucky could even open his mouth to ask._ _

__“Seems like a lot of hubbub over one poem,” Bucky said._ _

__“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,” Steve recited, staring blankly up at the ceiling. It was no wonder he had the thing memorized, he spent so much of his invalidity reading._ _

__“Who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge, / a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon, / yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars, / who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons, / who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication, / who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts, / who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy, / who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love.”_ _

__“Jee-sus,” Bucky intoned._ _

__Steve quirked a smile. “Those are just my favorite verses,” he said. “I don’t know the whole thing. It’s long.”_ _

__Bucky snorted a laugh. “Of course _those_ are your favorite.”_ _

__“They remind me a little of you, Bucky,” Steve said. He yawned and turned on his side so he could sleep.  
_ _

  


* * *

  


__  
“The world’s ending, Stevie. I think the world is ending.”_ _

__“Can’t… believe…” Steve coughed, long and hard and dangerously wet. Still, he got his point across._ _

_With those 52 words, baseball died in Brooklyn, the place known the world over for its baseball characters. The immediate prospect for restoration of National League to Brooklyn, or elsewhere in the New York area, is discouraging. NL Prexy Warren Giles expressed the opinion that there will be no club representing his loop here next season, and perhaps for several years to come._

__“Why’d it gotta be LA, anyway?” Bucky pondered sullenly. “Who’m I supposed to be rootin’ for now, huh? The Yankees?”_ _

__Steve hiccoughed, which Bucky took as his mark of disapproval._ _

__“Well, I’ll tell ya one thing, pal. I ain’t rootin’ for no damn California team,” Bucky continued._ _

__“Bucky,” Steve said. His eyes were closed tight, his eyebrows pulled together in discomfort or pain. “Bucky, I’m so sorry, Buck. I’m so sorry, I’m so- so sorry.”_ _

__“Jesus, pal, it’s all right,” Bucky said. “Ain’t your fault that O’Malley’s a class act bum who wouldn’t know good sense if it hit him in the face. Which I’ll be more’n willing to do if he ever steps foot in this city again.”_ _

__Steve calmed a little, burying his face in his pillow and trying to breathe evenly.  
_ _

  


* * *

  


__  
In the same sense that Bucky would inevitably get better, that he would no longer be in danger of filling his lungs with blood, that he would be able to walk up a set of stairs without being winded, that he would finally be able to get another job and not rely on Damita for help – Steve would inevitably get worse. Steve would inevitably get too sick to get better. He would cross some line somewhere and for the first and last time in his life, he would not be able to make it back._ _

__Bucky had watched Steve balance along that line a dozen times in the years he’d known him and every time Bucky had seen him come back, each time a miracle._ _

__Inevitably, his streak would end._ _

__Steve had been sick for weeks, months – Bucky wasn’t sure. It was easy to lose track of time when they were both homebound and the only indicator of the weather was when Damita opened and closed their door during her visits._ _

__It was late. Their apartment was lit only by the glow of the nearly-full moon out of their foggy windows. It cast a pale shadow over Steve’s already gaunt frame. He shook from the chill of his perpetual fever even beneath every blanket they owned._ _

__Damita had left an hour earlier to see if she could hunt down a doctor she knew who lived on the other side of town. They couldn’t pay him, but he owed her a favor. Or Bucky was pretty sure that’s what she rambled about to Steve in broken, inflected English before rushing out into the night._ _

__Bucky should’ve gone with her, but then who would watch Steve? And he’d never forgive himself if he wasn’t there and Steve…_ _

__“Buck…”_ _

__“Hey, Stevie, I’m right here.”_ _

__Steve’s eyebrows pinched together and he turned his face into the pillow briefly. When he turned back, his cheeks were wet with tears. “I’m so sorry,” he croaked. “I’m so sorry, Buck, I’m so…”_ _

__“Hey, hey, it’s copacetic, pal. You’re gonna be– You’re gonna be fine.” Bucky swallowed past the lump in his throat._ _

__“Bucky?”_ _

__Steve’s eyes opened and his dark eyes flitted aimlessly before finally resting on Bucky’s. Bucky’s heart beat hard against his ribcage, a palpable reaction that was oddly stirring._ _

__“Bucky?” Steve said again, his voice cracking with desperation._ _

__“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. I’m right here.” Bucky pressed his hand into Steve’s and Steve squeezed as tightly as he could._ _

__“I missed you,” Steve said._ _

__“Hard to miss a guy who ain’t been gone, pal,” Bucky said with a tentative smile._ _

__“Oh, Buck.”_ _

__Bucky pushed the hair away from Steve’s face and let his fingers linger on Steve’s jaw._ _

__Steve’s eyes crinkled on the sides, a weak attempt at a smile. “Kiss me?” he asked._ _

__Bucky sniffled and nodded once, not trusting his voice, before pressing his mouth against Steve’s. The hand that wasn’t in Bucky’s looped around Bucky’s neck and pulled at the fine hairs there. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and held the kiss as long as he could before he couldn’t do it anymore and he broke into sobs. He buried himself in Steve’s neck while Steve rubbed comforting circles down Bucky’s back._ _

__Time slipped inexorably onward and like all things eventually do, Steve stepped over the line._ _

__A lifetime later or a moment, a hand pressed against the back of Bucky’s head and he held tighter to the shell of his friend._ _

__“Bucky, it’s all right.”_ _

__“Bucky, let go.”_ _

__“Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, look at me.”_ _

__Bucky felt the rage boil up in him like a visceral thing, uncontrollable and overwhelming. He turned to the voice._ _

__And there he was. Steve. _His_ Steve. Young, proud, healthy. _Steve_._ _

__Seeing him was like a balm on a scalding wound, but Bucky didn’t understand. He glanced back to the couch, to the body, to _nothing_._ _

__“Steve?”_ _

__Steve smiled and it was so wide and unhindered and totally, completely, unabashedly _Steve_ that Bucky laughed. Steve threw his arms around Bucky’s neck with the same ferocity with which he faced life for so long._ _

__“God, Buck, I missed you, I missed you, _I missed you_.” Steve inhaled against Bucky’s neck._ _

__“I don’t understand,” Bucky whispered, although his grip around Steve was unyielding._ _

__Steve finally pulled back and pressed his hands on either side of Bucky’s face, staring wide-eyed and giddy into Bucky’s eyes. “You haven’t aged at all,” Steve said with a happy little laugh._ _

__“I don’t… Steve? You were…” Bucky let his eyes flick in the direction of the couch._ _

__Steve’s happiness faltered. “Oh Buck, you didn’t know.”_ _

__“Know? Know what?”_ _

__“Bucky, you–”_ _

__“Died.”_ _

__Bucky knew. Had known all along, somehow, but could only now acknowledge it. The truth settled in him like a falling leaf on water, like a weight that grounded him for the first time in a very long time. He remembered being sick, he remembered Steve fussing over him and then the inexplicable recovery, the sense of time that wove in and out like a muddy river._ _

__Bucky shook his head. “How long?”_ _

__“March 10, 1942.”_ _

__“My birthday?”_ _

__“The day you died.”_ _

__The false timeline his mind had created for him readjusted, and as much as he wanted to deny it all, it felt true._ _

__“And you…” Bucky said._ _

__Steve wrinkled his nose in concentration, a quirk Bucky fell in love with all over again tenfold. “Not sure the day, exactly. But 1957.”_ _

__“Christ, Steve.”_ _

__Steve traced his thumb down the side of Bucky’s jaw and said, “Like I said – I missed you.”_ _

__Bucky kissed Steve and they held each other close for an eternity or two before Steve pulled back and said, “I knew you were there, Buck. I could feel you whenever I was sick. I thought maybe I was crazy, but it happened every time and I– I missed you so Goddamn much.”_ _

__“Turns out you’re stuck with me forever, pal,” Bucky said._ _

__Bucky had an inkling that forever was inconsequential, unknowable. That their existence wherever they were was ineffably transient and nonconforming to time. But Bucky also knew he couldn’t have cared less about anything in the world because he was with Steve. Heaven, Hell, Purgatory – what did it matter?_ _

__“Hey,” Steve said as he pressed himself close to Bucky. Bucky’s whole self was set aflame with adoration for this person he was tethered to, he could hardly contain himself. “Here’s a conspiracy. You and me ‘til the end of time.”_ _

__And that didn’t seem so bad._ _


	2. Notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a lot of research for this piece and my actual notes are unreadable and extensive, so here's the summed-up version, including dates, descriptions of events, and little tidbits that didn't quite make it into the story.

**THE RADIO**  
The Model 220 Super A/C radio receiving set is a very real radio first produced in 1925 for about $370, which is equal to $5,038 in 2016. And that doesn’t include the price of the speaker set, which was no cheap accessory, either.

(The radio)

(Open radio with the speaker set)

(advertisement for first batteryless Rogers radio receiving sets – Model 220 not pictured)

More photos of the Model 220 can be found here: <http://www.radio-antiks.com/IndexRadio-Antiks_Rogers_R220.htm>

How the Rogers came to own the radio is anyone’s guess. (I have my theories.)

 

 **THE APARTMENT**  
I took a lot of liberties with this one. Most tenement buildings were originally something like townhouses whose floors were separated into 4-family dwellings because of the influx of immigrants. Steve and Bucky’s apartment is a flat (one room) that they sanctioned off into “rooms”. They had a gas stove and a sink, but no water heater. Warm water for baths, etc. would have to warmed up on the stove first.

Most tenements had a shared bathroom on each floor, but for the bottle episode effect, I really wanted to keep them as enclosed as possible.

(my amazing rendering of Steve and Bucky’s apartment)

On tenement living: <http://www.maggieblanck.com/NewYork/Life.html>

 

 **THE DRAFT**  
Every male over the age of 18 was required to register for selective service. The country was divided into districts whose boards checked registered individuals for eligibility. There were five categories of eligibility: 1-A (eligible), 4-F (ineligible due to physical disability/physically unfit), 2-A (ineligible due to education or work in war industry), 3-A (ineligible due to primary support for children other than their own or other dependents), or conscientious objectors. Conscientious objectors were often drafted and redirected to noncombatant roles such as medics.

Men had to be at least five feet tall (but not taller than 6’6”), weigh at least 105 pounds, have good vision (with or without corrective lenses), at least half their teeth, not convicted of a crime, and be able to read and write. For these reasons, combined with his plethora of physical disabilities, Steve was not eligible for the draft.

 

 **STEVE’S HEALTH**  
Canonically, Steve has asthma, anemia, diabetes, color-blindness, a heart murmur, and scoliosis.

Although not mentioned specifically in this story, my Steve is blue-yellow colorblind. Also known as Tritanopia, Steve essentially sees everything in reds, whites, and blue-ish greens. While also being hilariously thematic, this type of color-blindness is not genetic and is instead caused by head trauma. No doubt Steve has been knocked down more times than he can count and the idea that bullying made him literally see red, white, and blue was too beautifully metaphorical to pass up.

Diabetes was a rough diagnosis to have in the 30s and 40s. Although the use of insulin was discovered in 1921 and was later refined in the 1930s, diabetics were still required to take a shot twice a day.  
<http://www.defeatdiabetes.org/diabetes-history/>

Steve’s anemia would most likely be the cause of the majority of his daily health problems, including general fatigue and episodes of severe pain in the joints and abdomen. It also most likely attributed to his poor immune system and stunted growth. It was suggested that anemic people eat a lot of iron-rich food like red meat, especially liver. It is likely his anemia caused him to develop a heart murmur.

Steve’s heart murmur was most likely an innocent heart murmur – also called a functional heart murmur, and had no ill effects on his overall health.

Scoliosis probably did not affect Steve. Canonically, he does not have an awkward gate or stance, so any curvature of the spine was minute. There is usually no pain associated with slight spinal misalliances in children and adults.

Steve’s relationship with his mother likely afforded him better healthcare than the typical great depression child, and therefore his access to asthma medication was probably better. Circa 1920, the Silbe Atomizer was a manual, hand-held machine used to nebulize epinephrine and could be taken at home, although it was cumbersome. However, it was cheap. The first electronic nebulizers hit the market in the 1930s. They were too expensive to own, but you could visit a pharmacist in case of emergency.

<http://hardluckasthma.blogspot.com/2012/01/history-of-rescue-medicine-part-2.html>  
<http://hardluckasthma.blogspot.com/2014/05/1900-park-davis-glaseptic-nebulizer.html>  
<http://hardluckasthma.blogspot.com/2014/04/1930-pneumostat-first-electric-nebulizer.html>

 

 **TUBERCULOSIS**  
While certainly deadly in many cases, quite a few recovered from TB in the 1930s and 40s before the discovery of antibiotics. A diagnosis of TB, however, was basically a jail sentence. Usually a year was required before patients could be deemed as fit for life on the outside. Even after recovery, patients were never truly “cured” of TB and resurgences of the disease were common.

My original idea had Steve contracting latent TB and spreading the disease to Bucky who fell ill with it. But people with latent TB aren’t contagious, so I scrapped that, even if it would’ve been much, much sadder. Steve’s guilt over being the one to essentially kill Bucky would’ve been really painful.

That being said, Bucky likely got it from an infected person at work or the like. TB is incredibly contagious and can spread through the air.

I got a lot of info from this diary of a woman in 1940 who was diagnosed and sent to a TB ward to live for a year: <http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1079536/>

The process generally went like this: symptoms noted (including coughing up blood, weight loss, fatigue, muscle aches, etc.), X-rays are done, TB is identified in one or both lungs, patient is sent to sanatorium for 6 months to a year depending on recovery time. Two to 3 months of complete bedrest, constant x-rays to follow progress of recovery. If recovery is not noted, patient might have lung collapsed. Coughing can cause hemorrhaging, which will be seen as a cavity in the lung on an x-ray.

The waiting list for sanatoriums was anywhere from 3-4 months and they were expensive – even more so if you wanted a private room.

Steve and Bucky could barely afford to get x-rays, so they elected to keep Bucky at home. It was likely the lack of money and therefore lack of decent food, proper rest, no clean air, poor ventilation, etc. that doomed Bucky to his fate. Steve blamed himself and his inability to get decent work and pay as the cause of Bucky’s death.

 

 **JANUARY 6, 1941** – USS Missouri keel laid  
The USS Missouri was a real battleship that fought in World War II primarily against Japan. She is still standing today, docked at Pearl Harbor and used as a museum. She was built in the Brooklyn Navy Yard from 1940 to 1944.

<http://www.navsource.org/archives/01/63a.htm>  
<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/USS_Missouri_(BB-63)>

 

 **JANUARY 13, 1941** – Puerto Ricans become U.S. citizens  
On the surface, the U.S. Nationality Act was a set of rules enacted to clearly show who was eligible for citizenship in the United States. However, most knew the act was to ensure every eligible citizen of the U.S. could be drafted when it came time.  
<http://library.uwb.edu/static/usimmigration/1940_naturalization_act.html>

 

 **FEBRUARY 4, 1941** – The USO created  
Music: Paula Kelly – “I Know Why (And So Do You)” - <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YHycyIub9jA>

The United Services Organization provides programs, services, and entertainment to U.S. service members and their families. It was formed in response to FDR’s request for a morale-boosting organization for troops.

This was, of course, a nod to Steve’s canonical stint as a USO showgirl during WWII.  
<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_Service_Organizations>

 

 **MARCH 17, 1941** – National Gallery of Art opened in D.C. by FDR  
Steve and Bucky never got to go, although I’m sure canonical movie-Steve spent plenty of time there when he lived in D.C. It’s free, after all.

FDR’s speech at the opening of the National Gallery of Art: <http://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/ws/?pid=16091>

 

 **APRIL 23, 1941** – America First Committee (AFC) holds first mass rally in NYC (Charles Lindbergh as keynote speaker), urging America to stay out of the war.  
The AFC was formed as a response to the increasing pressure on the U.S. to join the war in Europe. Lindbergh was a noted member. The AFC was disbanded a few days after the attack on Pearl Harbor.

By 1933, the US was already aware of the violent conflicts between the Nazi party and the Jewish people of Europe. However, US newspapers were reticent when it came to the early 40s atrocities committed by Nazi parties in the concentration camps. When reports were made, often the ethnic identities of the victims were left vague. As early as July 1942, the New York Times reported on the operations of the killing center in Chelmno, based on sources from the Polish underground. However, the article appeared on page 6. This was a fairly common practice as more news of the atrocities made its way across seas. Many simply didn’t believe the reports coming in from overseas, since they were so gruesome, which could be why newspapers didn’t report as thoroughly as they should have.

Steve – and Bucky, to an extent – was a voracious reader and would understand the nuances and subtleties of newspaper reporting. An avid anti-bully advocate, Steve would wholeheartedly be for America interceding in the war and helping those being murdered senselessly by a fascist government. However, Steve also was willing to hear the other side and therefore attended the first AFC rally in Manhattan in April.

Protests were common leading up to the war during which conscientious objectors disrupted war efforts. One such protest kept Bucky going to work and landed Steve with an abrasion on his cheek.

The little girl with Damita is Louisa, the girl seen later in the Jackie Robinson vignette.  
<https://www.ushmm.org/wlc/en/article.php?ModuleId=10005182>  
<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/America_First_Committee>

 

 **AUGUST 12, 1941** – U.S. House of Representatives extend draft from 1 year to 30 months  
By just one vote, the US House of Reps decided to extend the draft. This, of course, was in preparation of things to come.

Bucky wasn’t a conscientious objector. Although his misgivings about the ethics of the war were vast, his biggest fear was becoming the bully Steve hated. Bucky hated violence in every form unless it was to prevent further violence. Bucky definitely saw something inside himself that was vicious and unforgiving and feared being placed in an environment like war might turn him into something he wouldn’t recognize and that Steve wouldn’t love.

Steve, on the other hand, was more than willing to put himself in harm’s way for the benefit of his country, but his biggest fear soon became losing Bucky when it became clear that the country was headed to war. The extension of the draft was the last straw for Steve, the thing that made it real and revealed to Steve that he wasn’t going to go to war and Bucky likely was. Furthermore, that Bucky would likely die overseas and Steve would likely die of some illness alone.  
<http://www.politico.com/story/2008/09/fdr-signs-draft-act-sept-16-1940-013467>

 

 **OCTOBER 23, 1941** – Dumbo released in theatres  
Does anyone else have asshole siblings who’ve done this to them? Because I have. The dangling-spit-threat was commonly used in my household.

“Cash or check” is a saying from the 40s that equates to something like “kiss now or later?” A common response was “bank’s closed” (I’m not going to kiss you).  
<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dumbo>

 

 **DECEMBER 5, 1941** – “Angel Street” premieres on Broadway  
The play, originally titled “Gas Light” in England, came to America under the name “Angel Street”. It is the play (and later film) where the term “gaslighting” originated from – when a person attempts to convince another that what they are experiencing isn’t real. This, of course, resonated with Steve who, at the time, was struggling with Bucky’s reaction to his come-on.

(original Angel Street playbill – 1942)

**DECEMBER 7, 1941** – Attack on Pearl Harbor  
Music: Glenn Miller Orchestra – “Chattanooga Choo Choo” – <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-XQybKMXL-k>

Recording of the emergency radio broadcast: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s_f9A3fwn6w>  
<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Attack_on_Pearl_Harbor>

 

 **DECEMBER 8, 1941** – U.S. declares war on Japan  
FDR’s speech: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lK8gYGg0dkE

 

 **JANUARY 15, 1942** – FDR asks commissioner to continue baseball  
https://www.archives.gov/publications/prologue/2002/spring/greenlight.html

 

 **JANUARY 21, 1942** – Pinball banned in Brooklyn  
An actual thing that happened.

(chopped up machines on barge)

(Police Commissioner William P. O’Brien destroys a pinball machine at a police garage)

http://fortgreenefocus.com/blog/2015/08/14/flashback-friday-pinball-crackdown/  
http://brooklynology.brooklynpubliclibrary.org/post/2013/03/22/Pinball-Gets-Blackballed.aspx  
http://bklyn.newspapers.com/image/52685020/?terms=pinball  
http://bklyn.newspapers.com/image/52687713/?terms=pinball

 

 **FEBRUARY 19, 1942** – FDR orders detention of all west coast Japanese-Americans  
https://www.pbs.org/thewar/at_home_civil_rights_japanese_american.htm

Bucky’s likeness was drawn by Steve in the same newspaper, based on this ad:

**FEBRUARY 21, 1942** – Raids conducted in Brooklyn Navy Yard of residents deemed “enemy aliens”  
http://bklyn.newspapers.com/image/52627887/?terms=fbi%2Bclears%2Bnavy%2Byard

 

 **FEBRUARY 23, 1942** – Bucky catches ill

 

 **FEBRUARY 26, 1942** – Bucky gets worse  
Music: Charlie Christian – Stompin’ at the Savoy – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x52x5hjpD5k

 

 **FEBRUARY 27, 1942** – Doctor comes for a home visit  
Music: Charlie Christian – Stompin’ at the Savoy – [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x52x5hjpD5k](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x52x5hjpD5k%E2%80%9D%E2%80%9D)

 

 **FEBRUARY 28, 1942** – Hospital visit/Bucky receives draft letter  
Music: Glenn Miller – “Elmer’s Tune” – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yI7jP3Ct_8k

(selective service envelope)

(typical selective service notice)

**MARCH 10, 1942** – Bucky dies at age 25  
Music: Glenn Miller – “Moonlight Cocktail” – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R7mXUmC47oU

 

 **JANUARY 23, 1943** – Duke Ellington plays NYC’s Carnegie Hall for first time  
http://bklyn.newspapers.com/image/52669833/?terms=duke%2Bellington

 

 **AUGUST 1, 1943** – Race riot erupts in Harlem  
An African-American soldier was shot by police and rumored to be killed. The incident touched off a simmering brew of racial tension, unemployment, and high prices to a day of looting and rioting. Several looters were shot dead, blood was everywhere, and about 500 people were injured. Another 500 were arrested.

In the year since Bucky’s death, Steve has moved on to spearheading other issues besides the war including race and sexuality. Steve would probably view his experiences in gay bars and the like in Brooklyn as nothing more than research projects. He was still stuck on Bucky and, more importantly, still blamed himself for Bucky’s death. He wouldn’t allow himself to love another man because he didn’t think he deserved that.

Steve was pleasantly surprised, however, to find a kindred spirit in Marco, a Cajun man who came to New York seeking work. Their brief kiss in Steve’s apartment is the only physical relationship they had as most of their friendship was based around social issues of the time.  
http://bklyn.newspapers.com/image/52645995/?terms=harlem%2Briot

 

 **JANUARY 29, 1944** – USS Missouri leaves port  
The ship Bucky worked on leaves port.  
http://bklyn.newspapers.com/image/52705484/?terms=Missouri

 

 **JULY 7, 1946** – Mother Frances Xavier Cabrini is first American saint to be canonized by Catholic Church  
Damita is grieving the loss of Louisa in this vignette.  
http://bklyn.newspapers.com/image/52868224/?terms=mother%2Bcabrini

 

 **APRIL 1, 1947** – Jackie Robinson signs contract with Brooklyn Dodgers  
Louisa is also a ghost, but she is aware of her condition. She was also the little girl in the chapter when Steve was at the AFC rally.  
http://bklyn.newspapers.com/image/52854753/?terms=jackie%2Brobinson

 

 **JUNE 6, 1948** – Kinsey Reports published, simplified  
The Kinsey Reports were some of the first findings on human sexuality that deemed sexuality to be more of a spectrum than a dichotomy. The Kinsey Scale is still used today.

Steve’s attraction to all genders was a great point of contention for him. The Kinsey Report gave him the validation he’d always needed but was unable to allow himself.  
http://bklyn.newspapers.com/image/55321289/?terms=kinsey%2Breports  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kinsey_Reports

 

 **MAY 17, 1954** – Brown V. Board of Education – Segregation in schools is unconstitutional  
In true fashion, the South was not pleased.  
http://bklyn.newspapers.com/image/55329666/

 

 **OCTOBER 4, 1955** – The Brooklyn Dodgers win World Series against New York Yankees  
Brooklynites were incredibly excited.  
http://www.nydailynews.com/sports/baseball/dodgers-beat-yankees-1955-world-series-article-1.2374623

 

 **APRIL 12, 1957** – Allen Ginsberg’s poem “Howl” is seized by U.S. customs on grounds of obscenity  
The court case that followed became a cornerstone in the annals of literary censorship.

You can read all of “Howl” here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/49303  
http://www.todayinliterature.com/stories.asp?Event_Date=3/25/1957

 

 **May 3, 1957** – Brooklyn Dodgers move to LA  
http://www.nydailynews.com/sports/baseball/brooklyn-loses-dodgers-los-angeles-1957-article-1.2381894

 

 **JULY 4, 1957** – Steve dies

 

 **AFTERWORD**  
I wanted to keep any religious mythologies as vague as possible with the life-after-death stuff. I hope I succeeded in that.

Bucky’s disembodied spirit only appeared to Steve when he was sick. You can hazard a guess as to why, but I will say that in life, Bucky felt he was most needed when Steve was sick. At any other time, Bucky was at a loss as to why Steve hung out with him at all.

I made it purposefully unclear whether or not Steve could see/hear/feel Bucky when he was around, except for the end, of course.

They both died on their birthdays because I am both awful and cliché.

Steve died at age 39, which is fairly early considering advances in medicine. It was likely he contracted pneumonia on top of whatever else he had and couldn’t fight it. That, and his inability to take care of himself out of sheer stubbornness.

Some part of Steve felt Bucky’s presence in that apartment and that was a huge deciding factor in his refusal to leave. That, plus it was cheap as hell.

Damita and her family live happily ever after because I say so and she deserves every good thing in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any questions or comments, hit me up in the comments!!
> 
> And, as always, I'm on [Tumblr](http://bartlebies.tumblr.com).

**Author's Note:**

> ** // MAJOR SPOILER // DON'T KEEP READING IF YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW // MAJOR SPOILER // Bucky dies near the end of this fic. However, he and the reader are unaware he is dead and his disembodied spirit continues to observe Steve unaffected until Steve dies at the very end. They end up together and are happy, I promise. ** 
> 
> Hello again! And welcome to my Steve/Bucky Big Bang contribution. It's been awhile and this monster is why. This thing took a lot of research and time (so much time) to complete, so I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it! I took extensive notes on all the events mentioned throughout this fic which can be checked out (with pictures!) in the next chapter.
> 
> I apologize for my horrific Spanish; you'd think 5 years of learning it might've taught me something, but (shrug). Luckily, Steve's Spanish is also shitty. (I apologize for any mistakes!)
> 
> I'd like to thank [Elizabeth](http://cameronwolfe.tumblr.com) who was nice enough to read a really rough first draft of this puppy and who commiserated (suffered?) with me while I struggled to murder my poor Bucky boy. 
> 
> Also, thank you to my amazing artist [Erika](http://eyesoffelina.tumblr.com) who did the amazing art you saw at the beginning! The art can reblogged from her tumblr [here](http://eyesoffelina.tumblr.com/post/149616034249/my-stucky-big-bang-entry-for-heres-a).
> 
> Thank you, readers, for your support and kindness and generosity - my experience writing and sharing my work has always been genuinely uplifting and empowering and I have my blessed readers, kudo-ers, and commenters to thank for that - so thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> The rest of the Stucky Big Bang 2k16 collection can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sbb2016). This was organized by the wonderful folks at [thestuckylibrary](http://thestuckylibrary.tumblr.com/) who are constatnly working to rec the best Stucky fics ever. If you're ever in a fic-hole, I highly recommend their extensive tag list.
> 
> Thank you again and, as always, I can be found on [Tumblr](http://bartlebies.tumblr.com).


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